


Crimson Dream (2020)

by DulcetDamsel (galvanotrope)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU-Forbidden City, Alive James Potter, Alive Lily Potter, Angst, Castration, Concubines, Consorts - Freeform, Crimson Dream, Crimson Dream Rewrite, Emperor Tom Riddle, Eunuchs, Harems, Historical Inaccuracy, Imperial China, It’s the forbidden city a lot of shit happens, Let me MAKE CLEAR though, M/M, Ming Dynasty, Minister of Magic Severus Snape, Minister of State Lucius Malfoy, Misgendering, Power Imbalance, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Qing dynasty, Rating will change, Slavery, Slow Burn, Tags to be added, The Forbidden City, Violence, no beta we die like socially awkward cowards, still more culturally sensitive than Mulan (2020), which means no relationships will be perfect or shiny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galvanotrope/pseuds/DulcetDamsel
Summary: Harem intrigue based on the Ming and Qing dynasties. Now with pictures at the end of some chapters. (Inspired by orphaned work Crimson Dream, but has since taken on a very different direction.)Son of Heaven and veritable demi-god, Emperor Voldemort has reigned for nearly 60 years. He's determined to reign for 10,000 more. While he has no Empress, his harem ever increases.Harry Potter is the son of a military official's concubine. He loves his mother, and only wants to live quietly with her and his pet owl. Imperial law requires he be considered for the inner palace, but with no power and no desire to impress he's confident he would never be selected.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Severus Snape, Harry Potter/Severus Snape, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy/Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy/Harry Potter/Tom Riddle/Severus Snape, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tom Riddle/Severus Snape
Comments: 173
Kudos: 595





	1. The Selection

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Crimson Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5601364) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> Glossary:
> 
> Empress (Huánghòu) - Max: 1. The only legitimate wife. Mother of the nation and in charge of running the inner palace. Only the Emperor and Empress Dowager are above her.  
> Imperial Noble Consort (Huáng Guìfēi) - Max: 1. Assists the Empress in running the inner palace.  
> Noble Consorts (Guìfēi) - Max. 2.  
> Consorts (Fēi) - Max. 4.  
> Imperial Concubines (Pín) - Max. 6.  
> Noble Ladies (Guìrén) - "Precious" or "Treasure" No max.  
> First Class Female Attendant (Chángzài) - "Often visited" No max.  
> Second Class Female Attendant (Dāyìng) -"promise" No max.  
> Female Attendant - No max. A maid who has been "favored" by the Emperor.
> 
> Gugu - Auntie, used in reference to senior maid servants (i.e. maid supervisors)  
> Mèimei - Little sister, used by concubines to refer to someone of a lower rank than them.  
> Xiunu - "elegant females", people entering the palace for bride/concubine selection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: 5/10/2020 11:30AM EST - minor grammar and flow corrections. 
> 
> Check out the original for a rough guess of how this is gonna go lol.
> 
> The Forbidden City aspects are based on C-dramas (The original was very similar to Empresses in the Palace), but please don't hold me to perfect historical accuracy here. I'm drawing from Ming, Qing, and just improvising a fair bit. 
> 
> Main changes from the OG Crimson Dream are introducing more aspects from Harry Potter itself (magic system and characters), changing the whole sickly wallflower thing Harry had going on, and I'll try to give a bit more palace intrigue. It might get squicky, it's based on the Forbidden Palace.

Floating on the river were dozens of neat little paper boats. Harry knelt on the bank but his shoe platforms were unsteady on the rocks.

All around him pushed _xiunu_ (marriage candidates) whispering wishes and blessings against the hulls clasped in their hands. Their hopes for the Selection; to honor their families, to not make a fool of themselves, to catch his majesty’s attention _._

Some boats glittered or shot sparks as they were released, precious magic layered between the folds. One elaborately detailed galleon zipped along, independent of the current. A steamboat puffed green smoke figures as it passed. A gingham patterned galley sailed impossibly upside down. More ships glittered soft and mysteriously, but still more were plain and unimpressive. No magic and barely recognizable as a water-faring vessel at all.

His boat wasn’t much special. A simple sloop. It was a thick cream parchment, ordinary except for the sharp flicks of black writing all over. An embossed wax seal and the remnants of a ribbon sloppily stuck across the back. It held no magic other than his mother’s, a simple charm keeping the pieces together where he stuck them. Harry set it in the water, his boat caught the current side-ways and began to rock it’s way along the shore.

He had thought this might be cathartic - ripping up his summons missive and releasing it, and therefore any remaining doubts, to be destroyed by the ocean. It wasn’t. He could feel the tension growing in his stomach like a hex.

A horn sounded from behind and Harry stepped back from the water. He tried to focus on the people crowding around him now instead of the Forbidden City’s walls - seeming to grow taller and more imposing with each of his steps. This was little better, half-familiar faces around him already crowded together into groups but Harry stood alone and feeling distinctly under-dressed. An uncomfortable reminder of his and his mother’s isolation.

Although the Potters were an old and respected house, Harry was the son of a commoner-born concubine. An eyesore to the legal wife, who was in charge of running domestic matters and didn’t like Lily Potter existing to siphon away her husband’s affections. Didn’t like Harry, a threat to her own children’s future.

His father’s favor could protect Harry and his mother when the man was present, but James Potter rarely was - as an official for the Department of War he traveled frequently and for long periods of time.

His mother taught him what she could - no small thing given Lily Evans - but today it seemed nowhere near enough.

Grand luxuries and complicated etiquette were bred into the young men and women around him. Smiles as complicated as their brocade, hidden behind painted smiles and handkerchiefs. One girl’s outer-dress a net of pure golden thread, another had tens of gemstones adorning her hair - each no smaller than the blunt end of an ink stick.

Harry’s silk robe and hand-carved ornamentation had seemed extravagant this morning, but now felt rather plain and clumsy.

All the better to fail, he supposed. It didn’t stop the nerves, but being silent and unremarkable was a long practiced skill at this point. He might have resented it, but he could never deny his mother anything or even fault her for worrying.

The _Gugus_ (senior maid servants/aunties) had corralled the group into a line of pairs. They were older women, dressed uniformly with neutral faces and perfect posture. A dozen eunuchs stood behind with bowed backs.

“Honored ladies,” one G _ugu_ began, and Harry shifted uncomfortably at the address, “will be presented to the Emperor and Ministers shortly. Step lightly, speak softly, and you will come to no harm. If you are graced with his majesty’s interest, your name plate will enter the palace and you will be bestowed a perfume sachet. Those who are not will be given a flower. Should any _xiunu_ fall ill, healers await outside the hall.”

She smiled mechanically. “Upon acceptance of a perfume sachet, ladies are tied to the crown and a _Gugu_ will accompany you until you enter the palace. Imperial wizards will be called as necessary and in a fortnight, titles and rankings will be distributed.” She bowed then, and the veritable army of attendants shuffled aside.

The gate opened with a great tremor, and Harry stepped into the Forbidden City.

The group moved silently but for the echo of porcelain heels against flagstone. The city might have been beautiful, his trepidation grew. Maids, guards, and officials darted off the streets and knelt to them as they passed. Harry kept his eyes strictly forward.

They stopped before a golden pagoda and, after a short whisper from the _Gugus_ , the first 4 of the line entered. The line moved up, nobody spoke.

Standing at the head of the line now was one of the few people Harry knew. Heir Draco Malfoy, 17. He was technically a prince of the fifth rank - related not to the Emperor but to the Minister of State - but that evidently hadn’t excluded him from inner palace duties.

Or perhaps it had, and this was political. The thought was discomforting to Harry; the harem was property of His Majesty the Emperor, but as his property he had the ability to lend its privileges. The extent of this largely amounted to gifting “unused” consorts for political gain or hosting diplomats for a night or two, but the two Imperial Ministers enjoyed the inner palace freely and often. The system was clever, designed to tie the greatest positions of power exclusively to the Empire, but it made for a complicated political and romantic landscape. Heir Malfoy would be 'sister' to his Uncle’s lovers, mother-in-law to his own cousins - a twisted family tree best, incestuous at worst.

Three of the _xiunu_ bowed their way out of the pagoda, each cradling a flower. Behind, two eunuchs carried a stretcher with the fourth’s unconscious body. The line moved up and Malfoy disappeared from view.

Despite party tricks like magic boats and charmed accessories, _true_ magic was rare. Non-magical “muggles” made up most of the Empire. Magical families were few, often nobility, but even most magical-born children had little power. They might brew potions or float objects, but grand feats and complicated spells were beyond the average witch and wizard. 

The Emperor was different. He was the Son of Heaven, a god set to rule 10,000 years and more. His magic was so potent most mages couldn’t stand it unbridled, they fell ill or unconscious from His Majesty’s ire. Those less talented, like muggles, wouldn't be able to stand his Majesty’s presence at all. This power was the greatest blessing of the Empire, and the biggest headache of the harem.

A significant magical imbalance between a couple, such as the Emperor and another, left the partner to be impregnated with a condition similar to autoimmune disorders - the body becoming so defensive against foreign magic that it rejects the growing signature of a royal child. The harem was filled with carriers left bereft, for a babe with no magic had little hope and never saw birth. (The palace claimed each miscarriage was sad, terrible providence - but there were other whispers too, Harry didn't dwell on these.)

The pavilion doors opened again and among the _xiunu_ came Malfoy - shoulders tense, gaze cold, but holding the first sachet of the day.

The next four stepped forward at the _Gugu’s_ instruction, leaving Harry second from the front. The next wave, like soldiers sent as cannon fodder. The girl next to him trembled they took their places, and Harry couldn’t resist a glance at her face. He had barely moved his head, but even then a flash of silver behind her shoulder caught his eye - Malfoy stepped past them quickly, but for a moment Harry could see the sachet gripped harshly in his hands.

His fingers sparked and the soft green of his sachet smoldered black in his grasp. Harry’s eyes snapped quickly back front. The sun was bright today, and Malfoy was certainly adorned enough to catch the light - it must have been a sun-flare, Harry told himself, and tried to put it out of mind.

As he moved closer to the pagoda the air already grew thick and oppressive. thickening his breath and clinging to his skin like humidity in the air. He was less than 10 _zhang_ away from the door now.

It seemed impossible for such miasma to come from a person, someone living and breathing. Could a man like that laugh, or smile? Had he ever scraped his knees as a child, calling for his mother - grubby cheeks and dirty hands? Did he get food stuck between his teeth?

The pavilion doors opened again and the _Gugu_ ushered them forward. Harry, third in line, kept his eyes carefully trained on the shoes of the _xiunu_ in front of him and tried his best to ignore the girl behind. Some part of him hoped for her to fall already, tottling as she was. It would be kinder to her than a life in the palace, but he admired her tenacity all the same.

They arrived. Harry could barely breathe. The girl was hyperventilating. They knelt, beginning to preform a complicated kowtow of bows, handkerchief raises, and blessings Harry could barely feel himself saying.

Each _xiunu_ stayed bowed at the end, and Harry was thankful. His head went fuzzy for a second but when he braced his arms against the flooring the pressure was felt a little more manageable. The girl must have fainted, two eunuchs were hauling her away.

“Rise.” The voice was deep and reverberated lowly, even in it’s lazy drawl. “Greet their Excellencies.”

Harry and the two _xiunu_ remaining kowtowed again, less severely.

Harry’s eyes had sharpened enough in the indoor lighting to catch the Ministers, each seated on a throne on either side of a series of daises which stretched up beyond his view.

“Blessings to Esteemed Lords,” they all recited. To the left, the Minister of State Lucius Malfoy accepted their greeting and absently gestured for them to stand. To the right, the Minister of Magic Severus Snape simply leaned against his hand.

As he rose, Harry stopped himself from looking further. Harry knew who must be sitting there, on the dais between the Ministers - The Dark Lord, His Majesty Emperor Voldemort.

If he had a true name, Harry would never know it. He would never need to know it. You didn’t directly address His Majesty. None were his equal and what his lovers called him would never be Harry’s concern.

Harry’s muggle cousin, Dudley, had once said the secrecy was because the Dark Lord was paranoid. That he hid his name so no-one could curse it, shaved his head so no-one might collect his person, even killed his own mother so her knowledge of him would never be known.

Dumbledore said he was lonely, grown attached to his solitude and distrustful of anyone who thought to care for him. Harry said nothing, it was very much Not His Concern. 

“Presenting Marietta Edgecombe,” the head eunuch called, and on the far side of the line, a young girl bowed, “14. Daughter of Francis Edgecombe, Imperial Med-wizard. Possessing of a pleasant voice, fine calligraphy, and adequate magical talent.”

Below his bowed head, Harry could see the Minister of Magic’s twisted grimace. The Minister of State indulged no such feelings if he had them, running through an eccentric list of benign questions - her favorite poem, optimal growing conditions of dittany, and so forth - barely letting her answer one question before asking the next.

A heavy rustle of fabric interrupted her praise for Kvass’ _Courtly Virtues_ , and Marietta halted, glancing hopefully at the dais.

The head eunuch bowed, “Marietta Edgecombe is dropped. Bestow a flower,” he intoned. Her face flushed but she stepped forward to receive a large, coral peony bloom from before stepping back. The head eunuch read again from his scroll,

“Presenting Hestia Carrow, 18. Niece of Amycus Carrow, Vice-Chancellor of Scrolls at the Institute of State Prosperity. Demure of temperament, possessing of brewing prowess and superior magical talent.”

The Minister of Magic seemed to take an interest. The Minister of State cocked a silver eyebrow as began his questions. Hestia smiled, a touch too sly to be coy.

Harry hoped she knew what she was doing. Boasting of potions in front of Severus Snape? Demure temperament, his left nutsack. He knew well that deceiving the Emperor carried a death sentence, being selected on embellished premises was tantamount to line theft, and neither Minister were men to interpret the law kindly.

She was doing well, though - giving eloquent, practiced answers. Then the Minister of Magic began to ask his questions. These were different, worded strangely, doubling back on previous concepts.

It was a test, everyone in the room must have been aware, but that didn’t mean it was any more a test she could pass. The questions grew harder, complicated alchemical reactions and conditional ingredient properties going far over Harry’s head. Hestia never faltered, needing only a moment or two before replying.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have doubted her, but something in the Minister’s face was growing more pinched as she answered. The Minister paused for a long moment.

“Your knowledge seems…considerable, Ms. Carrow.” the Minister said. His voice lingered on the consonants of his speech, somewhere between nasal and silken and carrying a gravitas Harry’d not quite heard before.

Hestia simpered, “I was blessed to study herbs with my mother since a babe, Your Excellency.”

“Indeed,” the Minister considered, “you certainly know your aconite from your wolfsbane.”

Harry frowned, there was something off with that statement. Hestia seemed too flushed by her victory to mind it.

“Your Excellency is wise,” she bowed immediately, “I can only accept your praise.”

The Minister of Magic sat back in his seat. The Minister of State grimaced, gesturing to a guard by the doorway to a side-hall. “Bring the niffler.”

Hestia froze. The guard ducked out of sight. Harry was very confused.

“My Lords,” Hestia started, “I-i..I have displeased you in some way.” She clamored to her knees. Her breath was unsteady, face ashen. “This unworthy one deserves to die.”

“Do you admit your crime?” The Minister of State asked.

“I am stupid, Your Excellency, and do not know what I have done.”

He sighed, “Dispel any magics on your person, or the guard will.” The illusory butterflies which had fluttered around her person quickly vanished. Harry wondered if any other glamours fell, but he couldn’t see from where he still bowed, 3 paces back and away from the commotion.

The guard came back into the room. He carried a large black box and stopped in front of Hestia.

“Nifflers hunt objects of value, precious metals usually,” explained the Minister, “juvenile nifflers, in absence of their mothers, are additionally attracted to objects of magical potency. Release the creature.” The guard flipped a latch and the box began to thump and shake.

A dark bolt rushed Hestia. She shrieked, falling backward. Harry flinched and so did Marietta, whimpering now even as she cradled her flower - the Minister of State glanced over at them.

“It’s leashed. And quite gentle.” his eyes flicked back to scene. “Niffler, show me.”

The blur re-appeared, solidifying into a small mole of a creature and scuttling up to the edges of Harry's vision. It held something in it’s paws and a eunuch quickly transferred whatever it was onto a pillow, which he then presented to the Minister of State, who frowned, and then the Minister of Magic. He studied whatever it was for a long minute, slowly turning the pillow in his hands.

“Clever,” remarked the Minster of Magic, “the earrings have memories trapped inside these bubbles. I imagine they whispered to her.” He lay the earring down again. Hestia began to blubber.

“My lords, it is not-” she sniffled loudly, “I did not mean..” crying denials and excuses louder, and louder, but saying nothing of substance.

Then the air seemed to snap.

Harry’s head felt fuzzy again, coming on like a headache. His vision went white. He jolted to sit upright. Silence. White static across his senses. Then a ringing. He felt suddenly quite tired, but tingling all over. Like his nerves shut down and were waking up all over again. Colors bloomed back into his vision like an inkspill. He blinked. His glasses had fractured, leaving him just as blind as without.

“-etting tired of that. Take her out.”

The guards were moving, picking up Hestia’s body. Stepping on blotches of pink as they hailed her away. Had she died? It was a cold thought, to set off His Majesty’s temper and been torn apart by his magic, but he couldn’t really process it at the moment.

Another group of guards split between hoisting out fallen servants and walking around Harry to drag Marietta off. A guard tried to grab at his arm too but even disoriented, Harry managed to shake him off.

“Your Majesty,” said a voice, uncomfortably close in his ear, “this one is awake.” Someone _hmm‘ed_ in the distance. The guard grabbed lifted up like a ragdoll. Once he managed to totter independently, he extradited his arm roughly.

“Presenting Harry Potter, 16. Son of James Potter, Supervising Inspector of the Northern Border. Of a tenacious manner and adequate magical talent.”

One of the darker figures in front of him scoffed and Harry gave a jerky bow towards the noise.

“Tenacious indeed,” muttered another of the figures.

The first one harrumphed again. “More like a handful to deal with.”

The dark voice he couldn’t see gave a huffy almost-laugh. A pleasant sound that resonated through Harry’s body. “Either way, it seems these flowers are now unfit to be gifted.”

Harry squinted around, noticing again the splotches of pink on the ground - the way they clustered on the ground and the extra body the guards had dragged out of the room. Petals then, not blood. The tray had fallen, perhaps. A shame, but it wasn’t like he intended to keep his.

“Grant the lady a sachet.”

What? No.

_No._

He never wanted to enter the palace. 

_What a cruel joke._

* * *

**The below are some aesthetic references, I'll add more to other chapters as is relevant. If you don't wanna see it - I'd scroll up, not down.**

Sorry if this leads to misunderstandings on word count, but I can only figure out how to do pictures on the main text. 

I've put various pictures for your own pleasure, mix/match/disregard them however you wish. They might not match my descriptions exactly, and there are certainly parts of my universe that won't be represented in the pictures (e.g. illusory butterflies or golden thread netting over a skirt). I'll add explanations where relevant.

_Severus Snape_

Below isn't strictly a real garment as far as I can tell, but it's reminiscent of the later Qing. I imagine Snape would wear something like this nearly every day, it's fairly suitable for formal events and it's casual enough for everyday affairs. One difference would be that his hair would be expected to be longer, possibly tied up in a simple bun (likely burnished black metal, to match). I'd say he would also wear a simple belt, even just a matching metal chain, where he could hang a pendant (as is typical) and/or a sachet. Given magic, this sachet might be expandable like canon Hermione's purse.

In more formal situations he might add accessories like decorative shoulder armor or a cape, given we know Snape is a good dueler he probably has some level of military accolade that would justify the armor. At particularly important events he might have the same type of robe, but a crest of whatever relevance would be visible taking up the majority of the chest area. 

__

_Tom Riddle_ (Not that Harry has seen him yet, but for when he does. Probably wears other, fancier stuff normally but in the above scene he'd just be chilling 'cause it's a long day of just sitting around being annoyed at things. Feel free to imagine him with more sparkly things though, it's surprisingly hard to find real hanfu pics with good Tom Riddle vibes)

This type of clothing is certainly not Han in style and would never have been formal-wear for the Emperor, but I like this piece and I think it has a good vibe.

Again, he likely would have longer hair, this time in a more ornate bun. Likely more ornate pendants, certainly at least one made of jade. Not going with hats the for the majority of the fashion.

This might be a more formal fit, and one of the only hat's I'll allow. Chinese officials' hats are...something else. 

_Lucius Malfoy_

We're just looking at these for outfit inspiration, not vibe inspiration. For obvious reasons there's not a lot of blond references or anything.

_Harry Potter_

More outfit inspo, we'll get lots more possible Harry outfits but this chapter he's not trying to get picked so it's not that important. Between the two below, I'd go with the left hair on the right outfit. 

_General Aesthetic_

Just some hairstyle examples, I think these ones are largely Tang inspired.

Some lip shapes 

This is not my favorite fit, but it shows a couple of good things. This person has a red painted flower on her forehead and dots on her cheeks. These are very normal aspects of makeup, the flower is meant to be particularly sexy. It's red and it's supposed to be a lotus, there's some vagina imagery there (historically). This is also a really good pic to show the layering, there's normally at least three layers of any female outfit. This outfit is very carefully symmetrical, and the appeal of that changes throughout history, but if you have a symmetrical hair structure you can expect the hair ornamentation to be symmetrical. 

What's not shown here are step-shakes, basically hair sticks with dangly bits that are meant to entice people as you walk by. 

If I ever mention white-skin powdering, below is probably the degree of that I'm referring to. The powdering can go _much_ whiter, but white certainly isn't better and while I can tackle discussing beauty standards and harms with this level of powdering I actually have no way of justifying a paper white face - it's so fake and is necessarily the product of a single beauty standard monopolizing the culture, which would be impossible to integrate into a universe where we have brown characters who are seen to be equally beautiful as their counterparts. I'll still talk about colorism if I find a good spot to put it in tho. 

Generally tho, I think this girl is serving looks. 

These women would not be in court because they don't have enough accessories, but they're good examples of the more daring blush styles we get. Note again that we get makeup beauty marks on the cheeks, a little higher this time. 

And the obligatory - ideal body size is obviously constructed. These women very close in proportion to the Tang women we see in paintings, so historians believe people of this size were in the harems and were considered quite attractive. Big bodies are beautiful. 

Imagine this level of hair accessory at minimum for the concubines. Also a good example of cute brocade. In general I love this actress, she always serves looks. I would die for her she's so beautiful smh. It's on netflix. 

NOW we're talking step-shakes. 

Extravagant people like highly ranked concubines and a lot of the ladies trying to be selected would have accessories like this and more. 

The higher the hair the closer to ~~god~~ the emperor 

_Fashion divergence from history_

Most of the fashion pictured isn't going to be historically accurate, most of it isn't even going to try. There are some groups dedicated to recreation and some pictures from historical dramas, but hanfu is a living form of dress. People wear this stuff, sometimes daily. A lot of pictures are just enthusiasts and people taking aesthetic pictures of their outfits. There are also some illustrations, which take creative liberties. 

More than that though, it's a magic society that's beyond the bounds of history - here are a few ideas that are cute and that I'd imagine are integrated in my universe!

I'd imagine a lot of the difference would be in accessories - magic would allow for different manufacturing processes. 

Ok I'm done that's too long already - whoops. Please stick with me lol. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve posted a response on the confusing gendered titles here and will try to clarify in the existing chapter and in the future. 
> 
> “Essentially Harry and Draco are men, and personally identify as men, but are socially “ladies” not because they’re women but because the role they occupy as “ladies” is a feminine coded one. Harry does not like being called a lady because he doesn’t identify as one, which is why he doesn’t like it when the Gugu called him a lady.  
> Prince is similarly a title Draco was given, it’ll come up later but if Draco did not enter the palace as a lady he could have taken up his duties as a prince (in Qing politics this basically means a fast track to political power and frequent invites to the palace). Since being a Prince refers to the circumstances of his birth and not the direction of his career, it’s one that will always stick with him (but will grow less relevant to other people).”
> 
> If you read the original and had some ideas on how it might go, please drop me a comment! I'm honestly flying by the seat of my pants here plot-wise but I'd also like to give proper tribute to the original work so any ideas on where that was going are appreciated.


	2. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2.5K of straight up exposition. AKA: Part one of the pre-plot, vignettes of home life  
> Edited 9PM 5/17/20 for flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that this is NOT historically accurate, I'm just mashing up different dynasties cause I like different parts of them. E.g. we got the Qing harem rankings, but we're not following all of Qing fashion. The Qing Dynasty was the result of the 2nd Manchu invasion, and neither Tom Riddle nor Lucius Malfoy keep their head shaved 3/4 of the way or keep a queue. No ma'am, no sir. Also not the actual layout of the forbidden city, I found cute art that I'm drawing inspiration from. I'll post cute pics when I figure out how to. I mean also b/c we're going to have international relations and neighboring countries are gonna include France, and China's an entirely different ecosystem. Also magic exists and I'll integrate that somehow I'm sure. 
> 
> hǔ zǐ means little tiger, or just refers to a brave young man
> 
> Shí is a traditional form of timekeeping, where every day is split into 12. So every "hour" is two hours on the clock. First half of it, i.e. the first hour of the hour, is the "initial" hour, the latter half is the "central" hour. We're going by the Shí adjusted by the Song dynasty, so 1st Shí is midnight to 2AM not 11PM to 1AM 'cause that's weird man idk.

The palanquin home was hard enough - Harry curled into himself, feeling very much in disarray. The sachet he only dared to hold with a handkerchief, in case his dirty fingers stained it. He held it as far away from himself as he could, twisting his neck into the collar of his robes, but its scent - musk and patchouli and jasmine and _something spicy and warm and addicting, oh Merlin -_ filled the space.

He hated how a bit cloth and fragrance overthrew everything. How the palanquin holders had abandoned their typical derision in front of an imperial escort. How he’d gained the respect he’d spent 16 years fighting for on a whim, like all he’d ever needed was a strong man to come take control of his life.

He hated how nice the fragrance smelled. He hated the thrill in his spine when remembering the Emperor’s voice.

The palanquin touched ground and the _Gugu,_ braced his arm as he stepped out. They’d stopped at the gates of Potter Manor. Directly at front.

Oh. He hadn’t thought this through.

In front of him was the main door - a third as tall as the gates of the Forbidden City, but it still loomed above Harry. It was ostentatiously wrought with an iron stag, framed in agrimony and rearing across the red double doors.

It would be a trap to walk through it.

He turned from the doorway, walking farther to the right. His arm pulled for a moment, the _Gugu_ lagging behind just a second.

“You are His Majesty’s, Lady Potter,” she half-scolded to him, “you don’t have to-”

Harry cut her off, “Am I no longer my mother’s son? The main gate is for the main wife and her children.” the _Gugu’s_ hand tightened on his elbow, but Harry would have none of it. “I would be an unfilial son to take my honors before she had her own.”

He expected more of a fight from a woman meant to be his ettiquites teacher, but as they ducked through the side-gate - a hidden thing of bare wood, half covered in bushes and vines - and she seemed softened to him. In the compound, Harry’s reception was lackluster. There was only a maid, carefully tending to the courtyard’s flowers. The _Gugu_ looked around, her mouth creasing into a stern frown.

“Young girl, call the mistress of the house,” she prompted, not unkindly. It was proper, of course, but Harry knew better than to expect propriety. The _Gugu_ would learn soon enough. 

The maid looked up sharply, but upon seeing Harry turned back to her work. “Mistress is out,” she said simply, “as is Second Young Master.” Her eyes lingered on their guest, but Harry couldn't tell if the maid even recognized her as an imperial servant. Did the young maid even know Harry'd been at the selections today?

For once Harry was grateful for his family’s disrespect and only nodded to the maid before determinedly making his way through the compound. 

“ _Gugu,”_ Harry said as they walked, winding farther and farther away from the main residence, “You’ve been walking all day and I’m afraid our hospitality is lacking. I’ll show you where you will be staying, so please rest as I fetch my mother to meet you.”

Her mouth was pinched at the unconventional welcome but she quietly agreed. He didn't know if this would help or harm her perception of him. He was clearly being snubbed despite coming from a respectable family, a family which didn't support each-other at home couldn't be expected to support each-other at court. This made him an unattractive ally and an unstable employer. All he could hope for was this woman's pity, he supposed, and hope that she could be charmed by him. 

Harry took her to a building just across from Harry and his mother’s. He left her with an overly polite bow and quickly backtracked to a more populated area of the estate to flag down a maid for her - charm would rely on his own good manners and exceptional attention to her needs after all.

He found his mother by accident, unprepared for the encounter and unprepared for her circumstance - overdress folded on the patio behind her and sleeves fastened to bunch at her shoulders, Harry had first mistaken his mother for a maid. Her elbows were deep in dirty washing water, her hair roughly braided, and though she hummed softly as she worked it did not soften the general wear in her movements. He couldn't claim to be surprised. He felt himself catch on the moment, a sinking despair in his stomach. She bore her circumstances with dignity, but Harry knew such a woman was never meant to bend like that.

Lily Evans was kind and clever, well educated in magics and literature and handicraft - but the type of work given to her by the Potters wore her out and dulled her hands. He could remember when he was young she used to teach him embroidery. She didn't pick up a needle often anymore. She supplemented their household expenses, a disrespectful pittance, with woodcarving nowadays since her hands were no longer so nimble enough for finer details and her callouses prevented her from threading needles.

His eyes grew hot at the reminder of what she sacrificed for him. 

“You shouldn’t have to do that.”

Lily waved a dismissive, soapy, hand at him, “It’s not so hard, _hǔ zǐ,"_ she said, though Harry doubted the truth of those words, "Especially not with a little help, hm?”

She turned to him with a fond smile. But her eyes met his and her smile dropped.

He knew it would be like this, but it still hurt. His mother was hot-tempered and stubborn, but she had a startling sort of emotional intelligence. A talent for reading people. She must have expected many things from today. Disgruntlement perhaps, the palace was tense and full of snobs, and some measure of relief. He knew there must be something darker on his shoulders now, something incomprehensibly sad. Harry never even considered hiding it from her. She knew him, and she saw him. The desperation of his face, eyes lost and mouth tense.

She shifted to her knees before him, bowing. Her hair brushed the dirt. “Your humble servant greets honorable young mistress.” Quiet, restrained, like a person Harry didn’t know. 

“Mum,” he croaked, “don’t do this.”

“It’s necessary,” she said, and it felt like a punishment. Like cutting off the only lifeline he had left. 

“Not when it’s me, please,” Harry crouched by his mother, trying to pull her up again, “I can’t- not with me. Mum, get up.”

She did, but slowly, and Harry pulled her close into him. Her voice had felt cold, but holding her now - Harry could feel her shaking frame and rapid heartbeat just as he could feel his own. 

“Can we pretend?” he sounded small even to his own ears, “I know it's not the same, but just when we’re alone, can we pretend this isn't happening?”

She sighed, almost sagging against him, and settled an arm around his back. “It’s not so simple, baby.”

He knew it wasn't. He knew, he knew. Pretending was running away, and it would just make the hurts fester, but he didn't feel strong enough for this right now and she felt so fragile in his arms. Harry felt too old and like a child all in one, he wanted to cry that this could not be his mother because Lily Evans didn't _do_ defeat but there was no way out now and this felt an awful lot like giving up. But at the same time, if there was fault here it was his. He'd not taken the possibility of being selected seriously enough, he thought his preparations were sufficient and clearly they just weren't. It had taken only a moment to ruin them, and that moment had been defined by his stupid, stupid pride.

Keep getting back up, don't rely on anyone to help you up, stand and fight. It was evidently so deep in his bones his half-conscious body had traded his freedom for it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Harry whispered to her, pressing his face against her shoulder, trying to make the action feel as it had before. As it would have, yesterday. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.” He couldn't remember when his throat had grown thick with snot, or when his chest had started to heave, he just knew he was sorry, sorry, sorry, round and round in his head. The only thing he could think of.

They sat there for a while. Lily rubbing soft circles on his back and whispering kindness back to him. _It’s okay_ and _it’s not your fault_ and _I’ll always love you._ Things he didn't deserve.

When the worst of it passed, Lily tucked his head under hers and hugged him tightly once more. The courtyard was quiet all around them, but Lily still watched hawkishly for eavesdroppers.

“You got my dress wet, you know” she said, deliberately light.

He sniffled weakly, thankful for the carefully casual tone, but mind still too foggy for banter, “I haven’t cried in years.”

“Not since Charles broke your favorite Go board.” Lily absently agreed. Harry made a face and pulled back from her.

“Don’t remind me of him. Can’t you see I’m distressed, be nicer.”

“You'll be distressed until you aren't, so don't linger," she said. Harsh, when everything was so new and he just wanted to _grieve_ , but time was a luxury in short supply now. "At least you’re free of him. And Lady Selwyn.”

Even that didn't seem so pleasing in the circumstances. “That still leaves you with them.” He felt gross, and hot, and uncomfortably vulnerable. He crossed a step to the washbasin, latching onto the topic change. “They don’t respect you. Whose laundry even is this?”

“Uniforms.”

Harry pulled off his overdress too, placing it less than carefully next to his mother’s. “My point exactly,” he said, and sat to work the washing. The water on his hands and the weave beneath his fingers at least felt real.

Lily sighed, “And yet, your Ladyship doing it is appropriate?” But she didn't push him further, just sat next to Harry delicately, rolling her wrists out in small circles.

"I'm supposed to protect you," he muttered. Harry pulled out the clothing to inspect, “I’m no lady.”

“You are now.”

“Right load of shite that is,” Harry ignored his mother’s glare at his language, it held no heat. “I’m not soft, and I don’t like men besides.”

The declaration was firm, and Lily didn’t have an immediate answer. What she settled on felt hollow even to her own ears. “You’ve always known, with your circumstances, that political marriage was a possibility.”

“One we’ve done everything to avoid.”

It certainly was. She had kept her head down and quietly sent out inquiries, and Harry had spent the years studying. Swordsmanship, magic, politics, philosophy. They didn’t have many connections but Harry had himself, and they had thought that would be enough.

Not enough for power, perhaps, but neither of them needed that. If Harry could have been a scholar, or a minor official, or a magician’s assistant, or even an imperial guard - that would have been enough for a small house on the city outskirts. Harry could beg his father for Lily to stay there when James was working, and they could live undisturbed.

He’d been set to take his NEWTs (Necessary Exams to Warrant Talent) in a week. He’d have done them sooner, but every applicant had to be rejected by imperial selection before they could enter a government regulated industry. Hiding the truth of Harry’s circumstance from an imperial doctor was already tricky, it was impossible to alter his magical signature so completely that he seemed incompatible with fertility magics. 

Instead, Harry had simply made himself an undesirable wife. Being willful to interviewers, talking extensively about his love for quidditch and swordsmanship, always keeping a wild edge to himself. Evidently, it wasn’t enough.

“I suppose,” said Lily ruefully, “any child of mine was doomed to be attractive,” her hand brushed a lock of hair from his face fondly, though Harry shot her a disbelieving look. “What? You don’t think so?”

“You’re stunning, Mum,” Harry said, serious and indulgent to her teasing. She hummed and helped him start to hang the washing. Harry was thoughtful as they worked, “I don’t think any of them saw my face anyways.”

Lily startled for a moment, taking the work from Harry’s hands and affixing him with a look. “Start from the beginning.”

He did. It took the rest of doing laundry and most of the walk back to their courtyard to explain. It was a stark contrast to the loving exchange he craved, and he missed it, but he locked that desire away and detailed the day instead. Lily questioned him intensely, not only on the strange selection Harry had taken part in but on the smaller details that hadn’t mattered before. 

Who passed? Who hadn’t? How many attendants waited for them? What behaviors and activities did the Ministers seem to approve of? The imperial palace was a deadly game of chess, and right now they were 3 moves behind. 

* * *

They entered the side-hall as a unit, quarter hour and a cup of tea from when Harry had left.

The _Gugu_ introduced herself to Lily as Madam Minerva McGonagall, a widow who’d worked in the palace for 15 years. She was brusque and wary, but answered their questions precisely and without judgement.

Her answers were not reassuring.

Harry’s entire life was based on his yet-to-be-determined official rank. Concubines were given a yearly allowance to be spent on the upkeep of their household and assigned servants based on this rank. Privileges were distributed accordingly, namely contact with the world outside the palace.

It was common knowledge that the harem had strict regulations. The inner palace was made up of indentured maids, eunuchs, and inner-banner imperial guards - sworn to complete subservience. Guests were limited, and even then heavily escorted.

Those who entered the harem were buried there. Most never saw outside again, and those who did only saw the inside of a covered litter when they escorted the Emperor to his summer palace. His Majesty’s concubines were his possessions, and never left his direct control.

McGonagall, for all her professionalism, had hesitated before she explained how far that protectionism went.

To prevent politics from entering the harem, there were no letters from the outside. If he managed a 4th rank command token then Harry could send a eunuch with money for his family, but the eunuch would bring nothing back.

His mother could die on the outside, and Harry would never know.

 _“There’s no way?”_ he’d asked, and McGonagall had looked genuinely sad.

“The Emperor would have the authority to pass a message, of course. Or perhaps a high official. You could see your father when he comes to report-”

“Father reports to the Military Cabinet.”

“Oh.” She’d said.

That was that. Harry was sure there were loopholes somewhere, or ways to pass letters through security, but these would require power and money. His father might help but Harry didn’t want his parents risking their lives just so he could receive birthday well-wishes.

“When do I leave, then?” Harry asked the _Gugu,_ feeling rather as if they were discussing his funeral and not his marriage.

“The Department of Divination’s Astronomy Tower will choose an auspicious date, but before then we have a great many things to do - I’m afraid there is less time for making memories than you’d hope.”

“Are there so many things to learn?” he couldn’t imagine there were, at least not in an official capacity.

“You’ll have to memorize details on the rest of the harem and we’ll be going over your arts - painting and instruments and such. And then, of course you realize, I’ll be instructing you in the..dance.” She waved a wrinkled hand dismissively. 

Harry realized he’d played down many of his talents previously, but he was a fair hand at a few of the typical noble’s hobbies. He didn't want to seem a hopeless cause when it directly traded-off with other preparations, but he wasn't used to the subtleties of bragging. “I can play plucked zither and erhu," he tried, "and my sword dancing is quite passable, but I’m afraid I’m not good at painting at all - I don’t have an eye for aesthetics.”

McGonagall frowned at him with a look which said much more than he thought it would, Harry wondered if it was really such a character flaw to be poor at visual arts. He just didn’t see the appeal when professional painters could do it so much better.

His mother coughed delicately next to him, “Not that kind of dance, darling.”

“Well, I don’t think fan dancing should be too hard since I know swords though - it’s just practice. Painting is really more discretionary so it’s a bit harder to-”

Lily coughed again - seemed to dissolve into a coughing fit, really. Harry pat her on the back. The _Gugu_ still observed him oddly, her mouth pressing more into a smile now than a frown.

“I’m missing something important, aren't I?” He smiled charmingly, but some measure of tension seemed to have broken and he hoped he could keep the energy.

* * *

Harry’s Noble Mother, his father’s official wife, never returned to the compound. He’d asked after her a second time once he’d left Madam McGonagall and his mother - they wouldn’t tell him their joke but it was clear it was at his expense (he still thought his dancing was perfectly fine and even strict palettes had nothing bad to say about his tea service, but they laughed when he replied with as much to their ever more confusing prompts.)

She and Charles had gone to visit Charles’ fiance, a daughter of the Black’s branch family. Not as prosperous a match as Noble Mother Lady Selwyn would have liked for her precious son, but Dorea Black took after her second cousin Sirius and so James Potter adored her.

It had been Dorea who sent a runner at the initial hour of the 12th _shí_ (10PM) informing the household that Second Young Master and the Mistress had spent too long viewing the gardens and would be taking the night at the Black compound.

He couldn’t fault her for his family’s bad behavior, really he quite liked Dorea, but delaying Lady Selwyn’s reaction to his selection left Harry anxious, uncertain, and unable to sleep.

Did they know about it already? He wouldn’t put it past the Blacks to have people reporting back from the palace, but even if they knew, they might not mention it to the Potters. 

Harry slipped on a pair of worn, wooden clogs and pulled his sleeping robe close. It was a warm night, the crickets were out, and as Harry walked through the compound his mind whirled. 

In his hands he carried the perfume sachet, still folded in his handkerchief. Harry had it tucked softly under his nose. The unfamiliar notes bled into the smells of the night, lantern smoke and freshly bathed skin. It didn’t smell like home or anything quite so comforting, yet it felt...entrancing. Like the first time you hear a lullaby sung. Harry drifted away in the song of it. 


	3. Music, A Magic Greater Than Anything We Do Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry loves his mum pt. 2.  
> Introduction to Lady Selwyn.  
> Things get weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the current chapter:  
> Changed Salvatore to Selwyn because that's an actual pureblood name and I was always kinda dissatisfied with Salvatore.  
> This chapter is what begins to earn the Explicit warning. DISCUSSION OF SEXUAL CONTACT IN THIRD PART OF CHAPTER TW: M/C is uncomfortable with subject matter.  
> Importantly: This fic will have sex, it might have weird approaches to sex. The sex scenes won't be meant as independent porn scenes. Idk where all of the story will end up, but I know this universe is not going to be fluffy. 
> 
> I’ve added some audio references in the story text because (spoiler) Harry’s going to play an instrument in this chapter. They videos are phenomenal, but they really, really sound best on headphones. If you’re up to waiting until you have good audio quality to read, I would suggest it. Obligatory: I'm not trying to represent accurate history or real cultures here - I'm just making stuff up. 
> 
> On past chapters:  
> I’ve now added PHOTO REFERENCES IN THE FIRST CHAPTER, so if you’ve not seen any you can go back and check if you’d like. 
> 
> Thanks to @Randall_Amberson for saying you liked my euphemisms! In case you missed it, tea service is also a relatively common way to talk about sex. It’s a bit less intuitive, but it’s less crude and therefore a more polite way to talk about it as far as I can tell. 
> 
> I hope people are catching Snape’s aconite line, I always get a giggle when I reread that for some reason. 
> 
> Last a super special thank you to @TheSteve4You as well! Your comment kicked me in the ass to take another crack at this chapter after it got deleted twice while writing it. My laptop can't even hold my OS, half of it is on a microSD, so my shit keeps crashing lol. Lost various parts another two times in the last few days alone.

Some quick hanfu picture references if you're not familiar, just the clothes not the faces necessarily - feel free to ignore or skip idk 

Harry:

Lady Selwyn:

Sirius Black:

Morning came like the tide, creeping slowly and yet arriving all at once. Dawn broke against his feet and Harry blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Something brittle and had settled in his bones over the night, his body shivered under his robe and his legs felt numb as he tried to stand from where he slumped against the columns of his porch. 

The sachet was still clutched close, and Harry lowered it, but the morning breeze pushed away its scent and the air felt empty for it. Like leaving a meditation hall where incense had been burning, the change was startling not for the unfamiliarity of a new scent but for the lack of a scent he hadn’t realized he became accustomed to. 

How...unsettling, to have become used to such a thing so quickly. How unsettling that its absence left him bereft, wanting to press it close and fall back asleep – never mind the needles in his calves which should have been alarming, or the harshness of his swallows warning of an upcoming cold. Lethargy had never been Harry’s vice and these impulses were unwanted, so Harry spent few moments testing his aching legs and pushed himself inside. 

It was cold here too, the coal long since smoldered in its cage and the venting windows chilled the room. Harry considered his bed, he could curl up and wait the day out – it was so tempting, to hide from the overwhelming cascade of _shit_ about to hit. But the quilts were as cold as everything else. 

He heaved open his good chest instead, rifling about for something thick which would warm him faster. Most of the fabric felt worn or rough under his fingers, he passed these by. He remembered the fine clothes of the _xiunu_ at the palace – just yesterday but somehow still a lifetime ago – gowns sewn with golden thread, necks lined with fwooper feathers, pants of dragon hide. 

Harry’s best piece was a caplet made of deep maroon raw silk, lined in soft grey rabbit fur, with embroidered cranes along the hem. His mother had worked on it in secret for months and Harry thought it was one of the most beautiful things he’d seen, but even this would not fit at the palace. 

His mother had salvaged the silk from a stained wrap-skirt of Lady Selwyn’s. The furs were mismatched, speckled, and imperfectly stitched. The cranes had imperfections they wouldn’t have been back when his mother’s hands were more dexterous. Harry thought of these things as marks of his mother’s love – she had made this herself in stolen moments and he wouldn’t trade that for anything – the cape was still far from what was expected of him. It might do for leisure, but it couldn’t be worn formally. 

A bird began its first call, the day soon to start. Harry frowned down at his options. 

He began gathering anything passable, silk or leather or even fine linen, compressing the material into a stack that rose from his hips to his neck. Harry scooped it all up. He listened attentively for a second at the door and, hearing little, pushed his way into the courtyard. Less than twenty quick paces had Harry balanced against his mother’s door, awkwardly pulling it aside with a laden-down hand. 

This, at least, was warm – but Harry couldn’t relish in it. He heaved his stack onto a side table and pulled off the first piece. 

“Darling?” His mother mumbled, stumbling into the r and sleep-groggy, “What are you doing?” 

Harry smiled at her as winningly as one could manage when stuffing a blouse into an ornamental vase. “Hiding things.” 

A patterned beizi followed the blouse into the vase. Lily rubbed at her tired eyes and picked up the next piece on the stack, shaking it out to inspect the stiff olive shenyi. She frowned, looking from it to Harry, then to the vase, then back again to Harry where he now tucked a skirt in the drape of her pulled curtains. 

“Your father bought you this,” she said, her words slow and considering, “It’s a shame you’ve not had the occasion. You should wear it at least once.” 

“I will,” Harry agreed easily. He stopped a moment in the middle of his stride, head turned sharply towards the side courtyards. “That’ll be the kitchens. We don’t have much time.” 

Lily listened, hearing the reluctant heave of the pipes as someone pumped the first water of the day. She folded the robe in her hands and crouched, pushing the ramie fabric into the cross supports of the table where it would be hidden by a decorative hanging edge. 

She rose to find Harry studying her tentatively, but she just took a pair of pants and crouched again to hide them too. 

“I won’t abandon you.” Harry promised, “no matter what it looks like.” 

And wasn't that ominous. Lily smiled sadly. “Lady Selwyn is quite persuasive, and she doesn’t like competition for her toys’ attention.” 

“That’s what this,” Harry gestured around, “is for.” He squatted next to his mother, resting his head on her shoulder. “No matter how despicable Lady Selwyn is, I’ll need her backing - and for once she will offer it, if only I make myself seem a good investment. She is pretentious and rude, more manticore than woman, but she’s not stupid. She wouldn't trust a boy spent spent years ridiculing; I don't think she even trusts the boy she _raised._ She’ll have to trust what leverage she holds against me instead. What leverage that _is_ I can at least guide, and I don’t want you in the crossfire.” 

“Making you some socks is hardly threatening.” 

“Competence will always be threatening.” Harry countered. “You are my mother. You made me from nothing - but she needs to think me yet unmade. If I come to her as a little boy - in over his head, visibly dependent on her -she will trust me. Children who’ve never had candy before would do anything to preserve their supply of it.” 

Lily took a shawl from his hands, minding the fraying edges and eyeing its fading colors before pressing that too up and under the table. “What you've said is true enough; I’ve hardly been able to keep you fat with sweets.” 

She sounded bitter, ashamed, and Harry would have none of it. He grabbed her hand and pressed his lip against the back in a quick kiss, “My days have been the sweetest any boy could have known.” 

He meant it. His mother’s hand felt clammy in his, but Harry didn’t mind. In a month, in a year, he’d not have the comfort of even a clammy hand – so he committed his mother to memory and only wished he were not the cause of such pain on her face. “In any matter, she has control of the maids, and I would not be able to pretend with any believability that I prefer her gifts to yours. It is better to not shove that in her face.” 

His mother’s hand gripped Harry’s a little stronger then, and she brought her other hand to rest against the plane of his face. She kissed his forehead gently, whispering, “I shall play the part you wish, but do not remember me as the pitiful woman I must become.” 

They pulled each other up and Lily reached to the dwindling stack of clothes again. “I would sooner mistake a mouse for a lion,” Harry said, and they made quick work of the rest of the hiding. 

* * *

He met Lady Selwyn not four hours later. 

A maid Harry didn’t recognize had rushed breathlessly into his mother’s pavilion looking for him – apparently the first of four new maidservants who were assigned to Harry ‘to remedy the grave dereliction of duty his previous maidservant had exhibited.’ 

Harry was certain no ‘previous maidservant’ ever existed. He welcomed the girl anyway and asked her opinion on which of his mother’s dresses he should borrow. He didn’t personally have anything suitable. 

Harry explained, but he wanted to make the best impression on Madam McGonagall he could. 

The girl had looked at all his mother’s dresses in distaste, eventually apologizing because of course the light was too low, and wouldn’t His Ladyship like to take a bath first? The maid promised she would personally ensure he had something lovely to wear once the sun was a little higher. 

So Harry took a bath with fancy herbs and oils and when he came out there was a finely embroidered blouse and skirt set waiting for him – right next to a jewelry box, a pot of particularly expensive tea, and a full, decadent breakfast. He ate sparingly, mindful that his mother was not receiving the same and guilty that he could do nothing about it. 

To save his mother he had to forsake her, it felt very wrong but there was no having it both ways. To sequester his leftovers would only be an insult. Lily Evans wanted nothing unless she could sit at the table and claim it herself, this was how she always had been. The only thing Harry could do was engineer the future to provide such, so Harry pushed away his food and set to making it so. 

Lady Selwyn wouldn’t be able to summon Harry, he was part of the imperial family now, so he put on a timid face and asked one of the maids if ‘Noble Mother’ had arrived back yet. 

She had, with a contingent from House Black. 

Harry made slower time than he would have liked going to greet the group. Two of his maids insisted on carrying parasols above him, another kept fanning him steadily, and the last held his arm as he walked so to balance him. Only, it wasn’t hot – the breeze seemed more to keep his dangling hair-sticks moving – and he wouldn’t have needed help balancing at all if the two maids holding parasols would stop crowding him. 

The rest of the compound’s servants abandoned their tasks and knelt, brows against the ground, as soon as they saw him. They knelt in the dirt, in food scraps, in spilled water – whatever it took to have at least two feet of space between himself and the workers on either side. 

One maid in training, a girl no more than 15, tried to peek up at him. Her older companion shoved her head down; the girl whimpered as her nose hit stone. 

Harry barely kept his eyes forward. It was a rule that Harry normally ignored (or rather, one that never applied to him before,) but protocol dictated that servants were below notice unless Harry was ordering their punishment or dictating his desires. Interference outside that ‘disturbed the natural order’. He hardened his heart for now, the feeling was brittle and uncomfortable. 

Lady Selwyn was holding court in the central garden, loudly commenting on the chrysanthemums. She heard him coming, if not alerted by his clacking steps then surely by the rest of the group suddenly bowing his direction, but Lady Selwyn pretended not to notice. 

Harry stopped at the edge of the garden terrace. "Bless·ed Morn', Lady Selwyn," he demured. 

The woman looked up at him with a strange, slothful, sharpness and lifted her arm towards one of the kneeling servants, who scuttled over on their knees to help her stand. A petty way of delaying her respects, she was barely in her 30s and magically young besides. 

"My Lady Concubine, Bless·ed Morn'," she replied, bending slightly at the knees and raising her hand above her shoulder, open palm up, in a straight-backed curtsy. Her shrewd eyes kept on Harry's, who smiled sweet and hopeful, and she smiled twice as sweetly back. "Though it must be a sad one as well, for such a loved daughter is so distant." 

Never mind that if yesterday Harry had even looked her in the eye he would have been punished. 

"This humble concubine intends no distance between us, mother. I only worry that I am an unworthy son. To represent the family like this - I am still stupid and undeserving of the honor." Harry gestured for Lady Selwyn to sit and turned to the family Black, "Our honored guests need not be so formal, of course." 

The group rose from their bows, but of the three only the tallest of them did so with a wild grin and winked unabashedly at Harry. "Aim a little higher next time you get engaged, won't you? The Potters have a reputation to uphold." The older man beside him blanched, elbowing his gut sharply. 

On his other side, Dorea weathered the literal treason with a practiced face. "I think Sirius is quite done with his wine, thank you." 

But Harry's godfather only refilled his cup, scoffing. "How could I 'view the blossoms' without some good peach wine?" 

"It is not even peach season." 

Sirius considered, then nodded seriously, "You're right, poor taste. Bring out the _chrysanthemum_ wine!" 

"Perhaps chrysanthemum tea," countered Lady Selwyn blandly. "Good weather and fortuitous news need drink and music to be enjoyed. We have plenty of the drink, but as for the music - I'm afraid the doctors said to rest my hands and it would be terrible manners for me to ask guests to entertain us." 

Lady Selwyn didn’t look directly at Harry, but her intent was clear enough; she wanted to checking the value of her investment. Sirius, at least, thought her maneuvering gauche – rolling his eyes over the woman’s head at Harry – but the obviousness of the move didn’t lessen its sway. 

“I doubt my meager skill will do the blooms justice, but let us bring out a _guzheng_ and I will play,” he said, waving a maid to fetch his finger-picks and sliding back his sleeves. 

Two eunuchs brought in the _guzheng,_ a large 21-stringed standing zither Harry had never touched before. It had rich, solid wood and gold-leaf embossing; the strings were a taut, enchanted silk; its bridges were made of carved antler. Harry sat before it on a carved stool and strapped on his chipped picks. 

He strummed it tentatively, checking pitch and tone, but the silk strings were quite different than the cheaper metal ones with which he practiced normally. 

“Is everything to Your Highness’s satisfaction?” Lady Selwyn asked smugly at his hesitation. Harry didn’t bother hiding his appreciation of the instrument. He was amazed with it and it made him nervous, there were so many subtle differences in the high-end instrument that could trip him up when he played. 

He measured the strings, spaced wider than he was used to, and tested the give of them. Silk turned out to be _much_ more responsive than steel, every brush of his fingers setting the strings aquiver; Harry found himself finally understanding why his zither tutor was such a hard-ass about hand posture. 

This was manageable though. Difficult, but manageable. He just had to analyze field conditions and execute his play, just like quidditch. 

Harry Potter played best against a challenge, anyway. 

He ran through a few glissando as he looked up to his audience, his jury. It was good to see Sirius there, someone who’d back him even if he played like dragon dung, but the other faces were hawkish. 

Marietta Selwyn, who held control of the Potter finances as matriarch. Dorea Black, who’d soon enough assume that control and any subsequent financial or political gains by Harry’s brother. Orion Black, a dour traditionalist of a man and as well-connected in the palace as anyone not working there could be. When Sirius disgraced the Black name before his brother replaced him as heir, it was Orion that saved his son from recourse and maintained the family’s positioning - proof enough of his influence. 

Harry began to play. It was an elegant piece, an ode to flowers, but not simple. Zither was as much about the playing as it was about song selection, and flowers were a very specific subject to perform. 

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X30whmRxrNI ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X30whmRxrNI) (Headphones suggested) 

There was a sorrow to flowers; something you listened to in-between notes, in the fullness of silence where the strings reverberated still, but you couldn’t place the sounds. There was breath like petals falling, a tonal curve where string flexed against finger and pick. 

Songs about flowers were not singular compositions, just as gardens were not singular forms – every bloom of note had to live and die by the ear, not confused for another. They were love songs to the ephemeral. 

The silk beneath his hands treated Harry softly, forgiving where metal was awkward. He played with a wondering curiosity, running the song several times to see how it could vary before pulling his hands back to his lap and letting the instrument settle out undisturbed. 

He looked up expecting to have missed some conversation, or for the group to be watching the flowers or eating cakes like they normally would be. Instead, everyone’s attention was fixed on him. Harry flushed darkly. 

“That was _A Mile of Peach Blossoms_ , was it not?” said the Lord Black, voice jarring after so long focused on the _guzheng_. Orion Black spoke like a stone wheel, deep and cracking but with the wheeze of effort and age. 

“Yes. My repertoire is lacking, I don’t know any songs about chrysanthemums,” Harry dipped his head, “but Sirius seemed to long for spring.” 

The Lord hummed and sat back, considering. Lady Selwyn was considering something too, but Harry couldn’t read her. Her face was pinched, but it was in none of the ways Harry was familiar with. Sirius seemed to have no such considerations, burping loudly and raising Harry a toast. 

“If you want to use my name to show off, I’ll certainly reap the benefits,” he declared. Harry suppressed a grin. 

“Oh? Did you want me to start showing off?” He flexed his fingers. He could do with a mood change; he’d never been into the whole literati thing and something a little rowdier would get Lady Selwyn off his back. It wouldn’t do for her to overthink him. While he needed to seem skilled, he also had to seem vulnerable to her predations. 

Sirius waved him on, and Harry scooted his stool closer – taking a more aggressive stance over the strings. 

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTD0BoPnNfo ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTD0BoPnNfo)

Harry played again, a much faster piece now which worked his shoulders and had him bouncing his heel with a grin. Sirius clapped a few times, leaning over to tease a scowling Dorea about her own zither lessons. 

This had Lord Black lightening minutely, but turned Lady Selwyn’s face to a scowl. That was alright though, this was her ‘Lily Evans is a damned menace’ scowl – the one she wore when Father came home with a hair-stick for her and an endangered species of fairy willow for Lily. The one she wore before buying out the shop which made a dress James complimented Lily on. The one she wore before half their compound burned down in a “kitchen accident” that destroyed that fairy willow tree. 

It was a dangerous look, but it meant that Lady Selwyn – _Noble Mother_ – was determined to outdo Lily Evans, and Harry could use that. 

* * *

A few more songs in, Madam McGonagall came to fetch him for whatever lessons she had planned. Harry was glad, since he’d been running out of impressive songs. 

Sirius had wandered off into the greater gardens at some point, so Harry left Lady Selwyn and the more politically inclined Blacks to make veiled comments about him and followed the _Gugu_ back to the rooms they’d provided to her for the duration of her time with the Potters. The woman sternly turned away Harry’s entourage of maids, smiling at his relief. 

Having seen his zither, McGonagall first had him fetch any embroidery he’d done, potions he’d brewed, or spell-work he’d managed. Harry had little of embroidery or enchantments, but he managed to make a good showing of decent Pepper-Ups and various pain-relieving droughts. 

She had him run through his sword dancing, first in the courtyard, and then again without the sword in the main area of her rooms, which she’d cleared for this purpose. Then a third time, only this time without his outer robes to better see his line – the slope of his shoulders, his posture, the angles he bent his legs. 

“You need to _flow_ , my Lady,” the _Gugu_ reprimanded, tutting at his stance. “Your hand should not extend straight from your forearm like that– unclench you hand like so, and tilt it back here, about the same angle as your bicep is if you need to reference.” 

“This is a very bad position to hold a sword.” He frowned and lightly rolled his wrist, considering how much weight he’d be able to support with the distribution so unbalanced. 

She sighed at him, “We’ll get a lighter sword then. The point of a lady’s dance to be enticing, not deadly.” 

“Well what’ll I do in a fight, then?” 

“No fights, Lady Potter.” 

Harry supposed that made sense, but still. He frowned. “There are plenty of sword styles for women, those seem better to know than _this_. Even if I’ll never use them.” 

“Any form of combat is a strenuous sport. It is prohibited for your own health, same as racing, exploding snap, rugby, puffskein-fighting, riding thestrals, merry-go-rounds, quodpot, and quidditch.” 

“Exploding snap is hardly a sp- wait, did you say _no quidditch?”_

Madam McGonagall gave him a very uncharacteristic, sympathetic look, “No quidditch, Lady Potter.” Then she hit his leg outward into another pretty but unpractical position with the long stick she'd acquired. 

“Well, what _can_ I do?” 

“Dance. His Majesty can take you out on one of the animals we can ensure remain on the ground. Yoga is mandatory.” 

“Yoga?" Harry questioned, incredulous. "Why on earth is it mandatory?” Harry didn’t know how the palace intended on enforcing exercise, especially something like yoga. MadamMcGonagall seemed to take his question as a transition though, because she was laying out a large mat. 

“For your own safety, my Lady. Now, down to your obscene-clothes please, we’ll do basic warm-ups, test your mobility and strength, and improve from there. Imperial med-wizards will be available to you once you receive your ranking, rest assured they are fully educated to give recommendations for this, and the other things we will be discussing today.” 

Harry did this slowly, feeling exposed in just his underwrapping. He left on his diamond edged _dudou_ , which at least felt covering since he’d never worn one before two days ago. He could almost pretend it was a shirt - if he didn’t pay attention to the air on his belly, back, and shoulders. At least his nipples were covered. 

The _Gugu_ dictated the stretches to him, sometimes miming the poses, sometimes pushing him further into them with her very long stick. 

Harry settled into a deep lunge and watched McGonagall pull over a stool. “I suppose I should start with a warning,” she said, Harry eyed her warily. “Meaning no disrespect to your mother or whatever friends you may have talked with or will talk to – do not attempt to reenact the things you hear about with His Majesty.” 

He tried to think of what his mother would have told him that applied to the Emperor. Always err on the side of politeness, only make commitments you can back up, ask questions if you don’t understand something, these sorts of things seemed solid life advice and he didn’t see how they wouldn’t have their applications in the palace. In fact, they were good advice now. “I don’t understand, _Gugu,_ ” he confided. 

The woman squinted back at him. She twirled her stick at his feet, Harry switched the side of his lunge. “No two men will like the same things, and the Emperor is more god than man besides,” she spoke with a careful deliberateness. Harry nodded obligingly; these were both true enough. “I am saying, Lady Potter, do not go and try to slap the Emperor’s arse.” 

Harry recoiled so hard he fell out of balance, sputtering as he caught himself hastily on one hand. “I’m not- I would _never_ -” 

“It has happened before, my Lady. Some people hear bawdy advice and, in an attempt to differentiate themselves, try such things at risk of their own lives. So, I am warning you, do not stick things where you are unsure they should be stuck; do not grab His Majesty unexpectedly, or with intent to move him where he does not wish to move; and I would not advise calling him any... imaginative names.” 

Sex. They were talking about sex, now. All of yesterday’s conversation and his mother’s worried looks were like a book Harry only just realized he was reading upside-down. They were all thinking about him, getting fucked by the Dark Lord. 

Harry didn’t really think about sex, but he really should have done - while no longer being a virgin would have barred him as bride in a political marriage if he had needed it, it would have significantly decreased his likelihood of being selected as well. He’d just not really paid attention to the prospect, he saw pleasure-houses in the city and he’d even been mistaken as one of the workers back when he wore his hair down, but when it came down to it Harry never really got to know anyone in his age bracket. 

"I cannot say I know what my mother would recommend, or what anyone else would,” he enunciated clearly, ignoring his flushing face and any hint of an indecent thought in favor of one of the more difficult poses in the book the _Gugu_ now held open for him. _One-legged Pigeon -_ he could do that, maybe. 

McGonagall raised a delicate brow at him. “Then it is good I am here to instruct you. Do you understand how two men have babies?” 

“Er- His Majesty puts his, well, his penis in me.” Legs spread like this, Harry was very aware of his lower body. He shifted uncomfortably, the _Gugu’s_ poking stick thunked warningly against his moving leg. “In my bum, to – you know – make the...babies.” Did she really have to be looking right at him while they talked about this? 

“Yes. The med-wizards will advise on the fertility aspects of your duties, I have arranged for one to see you tomorrow. For now, we will discuss His Majesty’s pleasure.” 

The woman spoke about the Dark Lord’s sex life like she was settling shop accounts. Practically, almost perfunctorilly. The affairs of the imperial household were the nation’s business, but this seemed too much. Harry almost felt sorry for the man. 

Almost, because Harry needed every ounce of sympathy for himself. 

The _Gugu_ had put her long stick away, but in its place she’d pulled out a shorter, thicker stick – no, carving. He felt a little weak, “Is that..?” 

“I would not know how accurate it is to His Majesty, but it will suffice for practice.” She held the statuette by the base of its shaft. “I will hold on to this to prevent untoward usage, but you should observe for anatomical reference when we go through certain positions.” 

“What is an _untoward usage_ of _a dildo?”_ That probably should have been one of his lower priorities when looking at an incredibly lifelike phallus in the hands of a woman older than his mother, being told he was going to ‘practice’ on it in front of said woman – but Harry was so far out of his depth he could barely process the situation himself. 

McGonagall frowned sternly at him. “Masturbation is strictly prohibited. This is not to enter anywhere but your mouth. Now sit here on the bed.” 

“Masturbation is prohibited?” 

“Is your Animagus a parrot, Lady Potter?” 


	4. The Minister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second to last exposition dump, I swear. TW: Body modification. No explicit body horror, to me it feels like the same level of body horror as say - Ron coughing up slugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION: I changed Salvatore to Selwyn for reasons. Salvatore always felt off to me, and Selwyn is a canon pureblood name. 
> 
> I acknowledge that my style is a bit bipbopboop sometimes, you know? lmk if you hate how this chapter is written cause I’m iffy about it myself tbh. It’s just how it came out, but god is it dramatic. And kinda short. We’re back to the tone of the first chapter (at least for the dialogue dump, oof.) I tried not to put too many monologues, but like – people monologue irl. Ehh...it's fine, right?
> 
> I’m aware a lot of these scenes have weird, weird, sexual overtones. E.g. McGonagall making Harry do half-naked yoga, or what you’ll see in the doctor scene, but I want to be clear THIS IS A KINK GRATIFICATION FIC I SWEAR. I’m writing uncomfortable scenes because they’re supposed to be uncomfortable, Harry is uncomfortable. There’s a weird power dynamic here and I think these scenes are particularly evocative of Harry’s loss of bodily autonomy. Hypothetically, could I have achieved similar things through non-sexual scenes? Yeah, I guess, but it would be so much harder and also Harry is specifically uncomfortable about sex so it makes sense for his narrative view to focus on those scenes – the other uncomfortable aspects of his world are largely normal to him. There will be a plot, I swear, I’m just figuring that one out slowly lol. 
> 
> Also, at this point, this isn’t really a Crimson Dream rewrite, it’s just a story with a similar concept I guess lol. I'll change that in the descriptions and stuff.

Harry was beginning to suspect very much that his Animagus _would be_ a parrot. He’d always wanted something a little more impressive, like his dad’s stag or Sirius’ grim, but right now he was perfectly content with a parrot. In fact, could he turn into a parrot right now, please? 

Birds got to fly away when you poked them all over, birds didn’t have to be instructed on how to properly _ride_ another man and feel very silly raising themselves up and down trying to maintain an ‘optimal penetration angle’, birds didn’t do planking exercises for a half-hour because they would need to support themselves in all manner of strange positions for unknown, possibly very long, periods of time. If Harry was a parrot, he’d be spoiled rotten with nuts and fruits and nice perches and whatever else people with exotic birds lavished on their pets. He certainly wouldn’t be told that his own pleasure didn’t matter because his body only existed as service to the Emperor. 

Yeah. Harry didn’t like the thought of taking pleasure in the act either, but it was the principles of it all. 

The _Gugu_ only shook her head at his affront, “Give it time,” she’d said. “His Majesty’s favor is considerable incentive. Our rules are in place to guide you in a harmonious life. You will find, in retrospect, that you wished you followed them more closely.” 

Harry thought people put a lot of stock in rules, for all they did jack-shit. Some old man in a tower somewhere could plan his perfect society all he wanted, write down hundreds and thousands of rules and ‘proper’ behaviors, but people like Lady Selwyn would always manipulate those rules to get what they wanted, regardless. They might call it a “harmonious life”, but Harry called it “discriminated against peoples being too bullied around to stick up for themselves.” 

Bring it on. The odd nail out might get the hammer, but Harry found his head was hard enough to cope with a few wacks. Not forever, as his mother reminded him constantly, someday his head would crack if he kept banging it around, but Harry defended his right to get banged up a at least a little.For good causes, of course. 

Complaining didn’t seem like the best of causes, though, so Harry tried not to stick out so much. He did what Madam McGonagall asked with minimal complaint. Soon enough the lanterns were lit outside and Harry was dismissed for the night. 

He didn’t go back to his own rooms; he didn’t know what he would even find there. Instead, he snuck around the back courtyard and knocked at his mother’s window, ducking out of sight the second he’d done it. Something rustled inside her rooms. Harry held his breath, but moments later the back patio slid open and his mother slipped out, quietly and shielding the light of a small, dim lamp. 

“Hǔ zǐ?” She whispered into the night, low and cautious. 

“Here.” 

She didn’t startle, but her eyes flickered quickly as she jerkily shone her little lamp about. Lily must have caught sight of him by a momentary stillness in her turning, but she kept a sober face like she thought someone might be watching and walked away without a backward glance. 

Harry followed, light as a demiguise, keeping just beyond the light of the lamp. Buildings turned to gardens; the gardens turned to trees; Lily led Harry several minutes into the Potter’s enclosed wood and sat herself down on a stone bench there. She snuffed out the lamp. Harry slid down to sit with her, slow in the blackness so not to scrape himself. 

Once he was steady, his mother’s hand sought out his. She grasped at his fingers, breath shuddering. Harry could only see the barest of shapes but he felt her lean against him. Lily’s voice broke the night’s quiet awkwardly, wrongly. "How do you fare?” 

_Not well_ , Harry thought. _Like I am strange in my own body._ _Like every moment furthers me from myself._

He didn’t say as much. It would have done him no good, would have only hurt his mother. Instead, Harry smiled into the forest in hopes it would carry into his voice, “Well, I’ll not look at you and Dad the same again.” 

She was quiet a moment, and Harry wondered if perhaps she was struggling to find the strength for levity too. “We had ‘the talk’ when you were younger, it’s not a surprise,” she said. 

“Perhaps-” he allowed. He remembered that talk: the cruel way Charles had taunted Harry, called him a whore and worthless and so many more names; his mother sitting him down that night and explaining what happened to pretty little boys and the injustice of power; hearing his first Howler a few days later and for _once_ feeling protected as his father raged that his son would not be married away at 13, not to a Goyle at any rate. It wasn’t enough, but James’ protection never had been. Harry was no longer 13, and he was quite sure the Dark Lord wasn’t a Goyle, but the feeling from that day was similar. Was familiar. Still, was distant in the way things you come around to are, an evil you’ve only found out was lesser by frightening comparison and now you only wish you could go back and so the fear is tinged with some sort of fucked up, fond regret for what might have been. 

“You never had me worrying if my ears are sufficiently erotic, so it seems your instruction was incomplete.” He continued, like it was funny. It wasn’t, it was just sad, but he couldn’t stop. The air was too empty and the space between himself and Lily was too vast. “I’ve got thighs ‘somewhere between a unicorn and a wampus cat’ – though you tell me if that’s meant good or bad. She kept talking about my flanks and the jut of my wither, so maybe it’s just something the palace says. My wrists are sexy, at least-” Lily hand tensed at that and Harry’s next words slipped out before he could stop his rambling. “Did Dad find your wrists sexy too?” 

It was a stupid thing to say, mindless and crass. Harry regretted it immediately. 

“No,” Lily confided, sharp and wistful and full of bitter memories, “but someone very close to me once said my hands had a ‘rapturous sort of grace’. It seems silly when I say it out loud, but...” Harry frowned at their clasped hands like he might see something more than blobs. It did seem silly to him; he didn’t know what kind of person would say such a thing. 

“Aunt Lena?” Harry guessed, confused, “Marlene McKinnon, the one who bred kneazles?” He couldn’t think of who else it might have been. Surely not Sirius, or even Remus. His mother spoke fondly of many people, told him many stories, but Harry could count the people she truly called close on one hand and he knew all of them by heart. So they might live on, his mother had told him, so their sacrifices would not be in vain. 

Even in the dark, Harry could see the slowly shaking blob of her head. Curious. More than curious, in fact, an unwelcome surprise. He was staring at the nothing where her face should be, but it felt odd, like if he were to shine a light it might not be his mother looking back. 

“Severus Snape.” She said. 

It took a second for Harry to recognize the name. “You can’t mean the Minister.” 

He had said it quietly, so quietly he thought maybe his mother hadn’t heard him at first or like he hadn’t really said it at all and just thought he had. His mother shifted towards him, squeezed his hand a little tighter. “I do not talk about him lightly. It would have only stirred up old rivalries and your father’s position is reminder enough of the past. Severus and I were-” she broke off, voice half-strangled, and when she spoke again it was slow and deliberate. “-we grew up playing together, went to Hogwarts together. We were close as anyone could be for the longest time. I wonder sometimes if he was my first love, but everything’s been so much I can hardly tell.” 

“The Minister of Magic,” Harry couldn’t help but gawk, he tried to do it as politely as possible, “ _and you never mentioned it?”_

“He was just a little boy from the red-light district, then. Brilliant and ambitious as anything. Somewhere along the way he became jaded, doing anything and everything to prove himself. I didn’t agree with the things he did but then I started to date James and, well they got on like water to a grease fire.” Lily heaved up her story like drawing water, like the labor of it tore her apart, like duty and annoyance and necessity all in one. “Severus thought me blinded by the Potter wealth. He asked me to wait for him; he said he’d have no wife but me, and that he would court me properly once he’d ‘made it’ in the Ministry. I said yes to Jamie in the end and Severus...didn’t take it well. He said all sorts of horrible things to me so I stopped talking to him. He sent me letters but I never wrote him back. He became Minister some years after that.” 

She didn’t whisper it like a secret, didn’t hide from it, but this knowledge felt forbidden anyway. These were intimate, not-for-Harry things. Yet, they were very much relevant to Harry. His mother and the man who, within the month, could very well be his lover. 

A man whose preferences would shape Harry’s life. A man who evidently had very much preferred Harry’s mother. Would that matter? 

The Minister of Magic would not be so blind to see James Potter’s son and mistake him for Lily Evans, even similar as mother and son were. Black hair is not red, a cock is not a cunt. He had his mother’s eyes and he was fast growing into a certain elegance in his face that his father didn’t have, but Harry looked more James than Lily by most measures. Tall and sveltely muscled, as McGonagall was quick to point out, with highborn angles to his face that never carried Lily’s kindness so naturally. 

“Will you tell me about him?” Harry asked, calmly, like he could belie the trepidation crawling though him. 

She knew this was coming, she brought it up, but that didn’t make her words come easily. No, they came like betrayals, long guarded things not used to being spoken. “Severus is...exacting. I wouldn’t say controlling, he just wants things to be correct in the first place, I suppose. And he’s sharp. Clever, yes, but made of edges, too. Like you needed to map him out.” The words were halting, Lily unsure how to describe such a man, finding each attempt at description wanting. “His mother was a pureblood, last of her line. I never asked if he knew his father, but I’ve never heard of another Snape and with her line of work-” 

Lily sighed; Harry could hear her feet bouncing against the dirt like how a much younger girl might have swung her feet. “He loved his mother dearly. He resented her for a lot of things when he was young, but he didn’t mind the contradiction. Didn’t see it as a contradiction, maybe. He called her brilliant and weak in equal turns, his mother and a whore in the same breath. She died his 4th year, to a violent John, I think. The tea house was paid handsomely, of course, but Severus didn’t see any of it – refused it. He started working there as a potioneer and unregistered med-wizard that summer. He started to climb from then, he made a lot of unconventional contacts and wasn’t shy in leveraging them. 

“And leverage to Sev was always funny. He was never nice, even when he wanted something. Not to the girls in the district, not at Hogwarts, and I can’t imagine he’s ever changed or compromised on that. He just shows up with a scowl, brutally competent, and calls you an idiot for not giving him what he wants. It’s very effective,” Lily laughed dryly at that, a little wondrously. “His softness, when he allows it, is something different. It isn’t kindness, but perhaps-” she broke off with an uncharacteristic kiss to her teeth, searching for the word with a strange, fond, energy, “...consideration. An acknowledgement of value, or of continued relevancy. Putting effort in where he wouldn’t otherwise bother.” 

Harry couldn’t help but cut in then, a little incredulous. “This is not a very flattering portrait of the man.” 

“Oh, Sev isn’t flattering at all,” replied Lily ruefully. “He’s a bit of an arrogant bastard. Still, there’s not a finer man for Minister.” 

"Can you tell me what he likes?" Harry asked. The question drained any humor from his mother. It was something both an inhale and exhale, like live wires going flat all at once, like she'd forgotten her reminiscing was for a purpose and only now remembered the implications. 

"I don't know how much I can help with that - gaining his favor. The circumstances are different. Sev came to me, all I had to do was see him for who he was." 

"But he's not the same person anymore." Harry's legs were growing cold and under the cover of dark he could feel an unpleasant squish under his shoes, the tingle of phantom bugs, a moist itch sinking through his clothes. All of these just exacerbated how tired he was. Tired of learning things he'd rather not know, tired of his pile of problems growing bigger and bigger, tired of having no real answers to any of them. His mother might have nodded into the dark to his response, there was something moving there, but he couldn't tell more and she didn't offer anything else immediately. Up to him to ask, then. Just another frustration, another problem he didn't know how to fix. "You said he loved his mother, even when he resented her. Can you tell me about that?" 

Lily's voice grew a second more distant, like she'd lain her face in her hands, exhausted. "I know - well, I pieced together but I’m sure I’m right - that she ran away from an arranged match. They wanted her back. They had the Ministry turn her away from jobs so she wouldn't be able to support herself, she refused to give and eventually she started working at the tea houses. I don't think she intended to, but the Ministry controls the ingredients, of course, and they blacklisted her and anyone she brewed for. 

“Severus thought she sacrificed her brewing – her _magic_ – for pride. He said she wasn’t clever enough to fight for what she needed, what he needed. Said she became a useless whore, wasted her potential. I suppose that’s why he was so hurt when he felt I did the same. It’s poetic, he used to say all these things about sex work, but here he is now, upholding the worst brothel of them all -” she cut off suddenly. Then, regretfully, “I didn’t mean that.” 

“Yes, you did.” Harry said, fiercer than he meant. “And it’s true. A harem is just a very exclusive brothel. I didn’t choose this, but I’m not going to spend my life pretending it’s something different, so don’t act like it’s shameful to say.” 

Suddenly Harry could kind of understand the man his mother had been describing, the complicated kind resentment you could have for someone you loved. The feeling was weird, inverted, twisted, but Harry couldn’t help it. 

Lily Evans was born with choice, she’d given up her freedom to marry the man she loved and even if she found that choice less than perfect in the end, it was her choice to make. Harry was born restricted in a way his mother simply hadn't been. He had to fight, and fight, and fight, for a chance at freedom. Stigmatizing sex work had always stigmatized half his options in life, stigmatize something he wasn’t ever sure he could escape. And now he never would be free of it. 

“It’s just something I’ve done everything in my power to keep you out of,” his mother whispered. “I know you did too. I don’t want you to go.” 

He tried to relax, his spike of anger fading into sadness and upset for snapping at his mother. “It’s a little late for that.” 

“I can still try and protect you. It’s just a different protection now. I’m trying to explain Severus, and... ” She reached out to grab Harry’s hand again. “I’ve contacted the headmaster.” Harry startled, eyes glancing about for eavesdroppers even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see any. Lily was quick to explain. “Sirius came by, said he’d seen you and then managed to slip out. He helped me with it. Between the two of us we managed to cloak a letter. I sent Hedwig to meet me in town and sent her off from there – I should have asked you, but we didn’t have time.” 

Harry shook his head, a little lightheaded at the thought, a little whiplashed from the sudden turn of emotionality in the conversation – leaving all his words feeling hollow. “No, I understand. Hedwig’s the smartest. If any owl could have done it, it’s her. I’ll still worry, but...” But she'd done what she'd done now and there was no changing it. 

“I said to let her go immediately, so she won’t be at risk for long. Professor Dumbledore will send word back the normal way.” She paused then, gripping his hand tighter. “We’ll find a way.” 

His stomach flipped. The more McGonagall explained things the more ironclad everything felt, but his mother was still fighting. Was that reassuring or not? He couldn't tell. “I don’t think there will be a way,” he said. Maybe he should just resign himself to whatever Madame McGonagall said. 

“If he has nothing, Sirius mentioned a cousin in the palace -” 

“She’s a Lestrange now,” Harry couldn’t hope, couldn’t let himself hope, “awarded to them for ‘exemplar service to the empire’. Charles hates her; she’s fanatical about the Emperor apparently, even after he let her go.” 

Lily made a sort of vague inquisitive noise, but pressed on despite him. “Then there’s another one, Narcissa, he called her. Of the 4th rank, apparently.” 

“A _consort?_ ” His surprise was evident. His hope was a discrete flair he quickly stamped down. “And _Sirius_ is on good terms with her?” 

“Enough, apparently. He said she’s ‘family-oriented’, but who knows what that means to a Black...” 

Harry understood the sentiment. “Wouldn’t count on the help, though. There could only a few reasons they don’t bring her up every other conversation. Something weird about the extent of her influence, maybe. Or she’s acquired power through unstable means.” 

His mother laughed acidly. “Power based on a man’s affection for you will always be unstable.” Harry winced, trying not to think about that too much. “As far as it goes, ‘Consort’ seems permanent enough.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, feeling quite tired and ultimately fed up with all the politicking, “There have been many insults levied against the Dark Lord, but neither indecisiveness nor over-attachment have been among them.” He smirked then, tugging Lily’s hand so she leaned a little closer to him. “My husband may be cruel, a dictator, and a megalomaniac, but at least he is not incontinent.” 

His mother wheezed politely. “I hope you mean _inconsistent._ ” 

“Oh, I hope he is none of these!” Harry whispered back, “Please let him give steady expectations, please let him rule by the virtues of mind and not virtue of his cock, but what I _meant was_ _-”_

His mother was having trouble holding back her giggles now, they fell from her like frogs hopping out the sides of a pot – little escapes she frantically tried to stave back. “Treason!” She whisper-accused him back, “To speak more is defamy, and an insult to your poor mother’s ears besides.” 

Harry let the day’s troubles slide away, even as his eyes threatened to slide shut with them. His upsets were still there, but he had learned well from Sirius how humor was a shield, and then from him again how shields were so important to protect ones mind. He put upon his best confused, innocent, voice. “But I need your advice. He’s over 100, _what do I do if he shits the coital bed?”_

* * *

Lady Selwyn’s maids were constantly hovering. When he returned to his rooms, deep into the night and only half stumbling, he was set upon with extreme prejudice. They combed oils into his long hair to encourage its growth and manageability (unlikely to happen, it had all sorts of weird licks and kinks in it that made sure things never quite laid how you’d expect), brushed down his body with a paddle of stiff boar bristle, slathered him with at least 20 layers of mists and poultices and creams to improve his skin texture, and coated his hands in a weird slime before pulling long silk gloves on top of the whole mess. 

It was therefore Harry’s greatest pleasure when the next morning, after a whole other excessive and grueling routine to ready him for the visit, Imperial Med-wizard Blishwick told the maids they were doing half of everything wrong. 

Med-wizard Blishwick was an older fellow, tall and with a doughy middle. He wasn’t so much clean shaven as he looked like he didn’t need to shave at all, his entire face glistening and soft and round. Madame McGonagall assured Harry that Blishwick was one of ‘the best’ and that it was a real coop to get him scheduled so early. The man in question smiled proudly when she said so and toyed with a long string of wooden beads he wore. They fumbled through his long fingers, stark against the embroidered blue of his med-wizard robes, and Harry couldn’t help but think there was something off about the man. 

He took Harry’s medical history, had the maids bring out every potion they’d given him over the past two weeks (really, the past day, since he hadn’t such things before), and inspected the compound for ‘environmental contaminants’ before even looking at Harry. He reprimanded the maids for careless potions usage just outside the door where Harry couldn’t see them, but he spoke loudly – louder than he had when talking with McGonagall or anyone else thus far, like he was making sure Harry heard too. 

Harry wondered if was a subtle reprimand to himself or if Blishwick was one of those people who thought harsh discipline a virtue and so wanted to impress Harry with his knowledge and severity. Or maybe he wanted to extol the virtues and exclusivity of the palace. The maids needled Blishwick for his own cosmetic recipes and an explanation as to why their routines weren’t up to par, since they ‘were good aplenty’ for Lady Selwyn, but the man said he’d only explain to whichever maid Harry decided to bring with him to the palace to settle. 

Just to spite them all, Harry made a point of explaining to Blishwick just how new these maids were to him. Blishwick hummed consideringly and suggested that perhaps Harry might not take any maids to the palace at all, and Blishwick would find a more educated maid to take over Harry’s care inside the palace. And, well – who was Harry to go against medical advice? Especially when not even Lady Selwyn would be able to fight him on it. 

Harry let himself be prodded this way and that. Med-wizard Blishwick had to wipe down his hands every other minute so they didn’t get too moist and clammy. Disconcerting as this was, Harry figured it far better than the alternative. He had to deal minimally with the healer’s hands as all manner of instruments, magical and not were used to take measure of Harry’s health. Some of these recordings seemed stupendously inane – for instance calculating the exact growth rate for each of Harry’s toenails – but others had Blishwick comparing notes and charts with Madame McGonagall. 

He was sure they were talking about his ‘withers’ again, or some such shite. 

Then came the humiliating parts. Sticking weird hoses up his nostrils and down his throat, rapid cognition tests that had him repeat silly phrases from memory, the med-wizard magicking up a projection of his internal organs and commenting on what a fine pancreas he had. Harry would have been sure he was making it all up, except for the ink brush playing dutiful scribe at the back of the room – filling pages upon pages of notations. 

Just when Harry thought all possible checks done, Blishwick said quite possibly the most concerning thing he could have. 

“For sake of propriety and your own comfort,” huffed the man, toying awkwardly with his wooden beads again, “I must assure you that I have been fully castrated and that the memories of the next hour will be wiped from my mind. Will you require substantiation on either of these claims?” 

“Er, substantiation?” Harry asked in surprise more than genuine curiosity. 

Madame McGonagall cleared her throat meaningfully, “A trusted 3rd party may verify Med-wizard Blishwick’s state, and you may set some sort of test for his memory if you like.” Blishwick’s head bobbed agreeably. 

Harry just blinked, trying to process that information. “No, I-” he started, “I don’t believe you’re lying to me or anything.” Should he be worried they’re lying to him? 

They didn’t say. The _Gugu_ only pulled out her wand (a rare commodity, Harry wondered if the madame was more important than he’d thought, and was quite glad he’d been nice to her so far.) She promptly transfigured one of his room’s chairs into a much larger, strange chair. It was tilted back at an angle and took up much more of the room than the first chair had. Med-wizard Blishwick pulled aside the furniture around it so he had working space and gestured at Harry in a sort of ‘get in’ motion. 

Harry did, reluctantly. McGonagall looked down at him, “My lady, I would recommend just closing your eyes. I will tell you when it’s done.” 

_When what was done?_ Harry didn’t ask, he didn’t think he wanted to know but at the same time he couldn’t _not._ It was his body, he might not be able to control where it would end up anymore, but he at least deserved to know what was happening to it. 

Blishwick slid up his skirts, and Harry started at the touch. “Could you tell me when you’re doing something?” he said, cold and hardly hiding his sarcasm now. The med-wizard huffed, but answered straight. 

“Celibian worm, it’s an entozoon.” The med-wizard lifted a little jar, mostly clear but with a little wriggling line about an inch long within it. He made an unfortunate face, grim and soft all at once. “A parasite, so to speak. It will not harm you.” 

Blishwick must not have been an Imperial Med-wizard at all, Harry thought deliriously. He must have killed the real Blishwick and was coming ‘round to torture him for some reason. A parasite? He was going to put _a parasite_ in him? Was the _Gugu_ just going to _let him put a parasite in Harry?_

Madame McGonagall gripped his shoulder tightly, pushing him back into the seat he wasn’t quite aware he had arisen from. “This is all according to procedure, Lady Potter.” She informed him. She might have been going for soothing, but it fell somewhere along the line of exasperated which Harry didn’t quite think was fair given _she wasn’t the one getting a parasite put in her._ He would have thought she was an imposter too, but the _Gugu_ had literally followed him home from the palace. 

The med-wizard pulled off Harry’s obscene-clothes and pulled his tense legs into the stirrups of the chair. Then tightened the straps there, securing Harry’s legs in place before he really registered it. The man wiped down his hands again and it was only McGonagall’s hand on his shoulder which kept him steady. 

Harry did close his eyes, but it only made him more aware of the touching, so instead he opened them and just stared at the ceiling. He could still feel air along his groin, though, he could still hear the clatter of glass and metal being set along a table. 

Distraction, he needed a distraction. He could say something, but what to say? _Oh how’s the weather today Med-wizard Blishwick? Just dandy, my lady, great day to put a_ worm _in your_ dick. 

Because, apparently, that’s what the man intended to do. He was wiping down Harry’s penis with some sort of antiseptic, murmuring notes to the still going ink brush. No testicular cancer, lucky for Harry, but the process still ticked on and Harry felt every second of it. 

“Celibian worm, ey?” Harry managed, the repetition and the word ‘worm’ making him think again of a parrot – a connection which startled a hoarse, hysterical sort of laugh out of him. 

“It prevents viable semen, and thus, impregnation.” McGonagall said shortly. 

“Everyone get them?” 

Blishwick looked up from where he was working. “No, my Lady.” 

Right. Of course they didn’t. Harry felt very uncomfortable again, and was rather glad the wizard wouldn’t remember that. Bad form to remind a man he’d had all his bits chopped off. But that did beg the question - 

McGonagall cut in. “This procedure is restricted to the concubinage. Physical castration has effects undesirable for your station. The guards are restricted otherwise, by reversible means.” 

Meaning several things, Harry realized. First, that he had to read up on eunuchs – almost the entirety of the inner palace’s bureaucracy were eunuchs, virile men obviously not being allowed near the harem and women mostly serving under temporary contracts, so knowing what ‘effects’ they suffered would be important. Second, that the little wriggling worm in a jar was very much implied to be a permanent means of infertility. And third, that Harry was going to avoid all contact with guards all the time, thank you very much. ‘Reversible means’ sounded suspiciously like ‘a method with a loophole to exploit’, and that meant trouble. He’d looked enough into joining the royal guard to know even the implication of an affair was enough to get both parties killed and perhaps a few generations of family members too, depending on the offence. No thank you. 

Something horrid must have shown on Harry’s face because McGonagall squeezed his shoulders and said, “Do not worry, you will excrete it.” Gross. Also, not what he was worried about. Sort of comforting, though – at least he wouldn’t have to take care of the thing. Harry didn’t think he would like sharing his body. It would have been like an unwanted pet. Hedwig would have gotten jealous. 

He heard Blishwick’s tongs tap and looked down before he could think about it, but the med-wizard just shook the empty jar at him and wiped down his hands yet again. His stomach flipped at the sight, Harry hoped that was just nerves. 

His legs were still strapped in though, and Blishwick was rustling around again. “Your ears, next.” 

“You’re going to put parasites in my ears?” Harry gaped. 

McGonagall near choked. “No, dear boy, he’s going to pierce your ears.” Blishwick had the decency to look embarrassed at least, and Harry felt quite comforted that they were back in non-parasitic territory. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape is exactly the kind of person to get hot about wrists. Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong.
> 
> An interesting article on pre-modern chinese eunuchs if anyone is interested: https://multimedia.scmp.com/culture/article/2155959/forbidden-city/life/chapter_02.html?src=follow-chapter
> 
> Please review!


	5. Entering the Imperial Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 Sections of Stuff Happening
> 
> I have, like, half a plan. That's enough - right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the pinyin might be a bit confusing for some readers (that’s the phonetic spelling of the mandarin word, like Guiren, Changzai, Daiying). The OG Crimson Dream said it would call the lower two ranks by pinyin and the rest by translation, but given Harry is both a noble and a lady I thought it would be additionally confusing if I called him separately a Noble Lady here. I’ll use the english terms more often in the palace, but Geiren through Fei seem to have contextual meanings that can't be conveyed so simply though their translations.

It had only been two weeks, but Harry felt himself slipping away into someone he didn’t recognize. 

He was becoming so used to platform shoes that feeling ground beneath bare or slippered feet felt uncomfortable and intimate. His hands moved extravagantly to accommodate long finger-talons, even picking up his tea had his fingers in a flourish, and the habit carried even with fingers unadorned. He was served a dozen dishes every meal but wasn’t to finish any of them, leaving good meats and delicacies to waste. 

Selwyn’s maids brushed his hair, brushed his teeth, clothed him, oiled his body, managed his cuticles, fucking held his cock when he pissed – it was a level of infantilization and scrutiny he’d never thought possible. They chastised the way his tongue lay, gossiped at night about the scent of his sweat, each pushed on him remedies they promised would cure him of some inane malady - this poultice on the soles of his feet, that herb stuffed in his ears at night. 

His lessons were better, something to concentrate on once he let himself forget their purpose, but his daily meetings with Lady Selwyn were agonizing. He smiled and played the zither as a parade of visitors came, day after day. The Aymslowes, Hornbys, Budges, anyone who had a connection to the Potters or Selwyns they could exploit, came to call and tried to impress Harry so he might remember their names in court. It was a strained, bewildering process. 

He’d received word of his title mid-way through the earlier week. He was assigned the 6th rank. Harry thought he’d received the wrong scroll at first. It made no sense, not to him, not to his mother, not to Madame McGonagall, not to any of the people who heard of it, and the unexpectedness was terrifying because the Imperial Palace did not do anything for nothing. 

James Potter was a political dissident, a military officer pushed out to the border, one step above exiled. Lady Selwyn may have come from a ‘superior bloodline’ but she was a 5th daughter of a 2nd son and her father was only a moderately connected statesman himself. Lily Evans was a footnote, and only then because of the secret she had shared so cautiously in the woods. 

Harry’s pedigree was barely passable, he had no accolades or impressive deeds, he’d bribed no officers and he’d curried no favors, he’d presented himself as nothing more than a crass idiot with _perhaps_ a particularly sturdy constitution. Even Lady Selwyn had expected him of the 8th rank, barely respectable, and she thought he had been trying to get selected. 

Nothing about him should have stood out to whatever committee granted these titles. Yet, Harry was not Dāyìng, where the children of traitors and unimportant nobility like himself were not only lucky but ecstatic to be assigned, a rank which would have let him hide away undisturbed; and he was not Chángzài, an already luxurious position he neither expected or wanted, a more than respectable ranking many concubines lived and died with; no, somehow, _somehow,_ he was Guìrén. 

Officially, a national treasure. 

Guìrén belonged not quite to the upper harem – those ranks restricted in number and exceptionally prestigious for it, the retinue which followed His Majesty everywhere, who ‘embodied the virtues of His glorious reign’, the ‘sanctum of the Empire’, those players who knew intimately imperial favor and so cared all the more about not losing it – but Harry was far closer to this than was comfortable. He felt visible in a way that left his skin itchy and his nights sleepless, that made him paranoid in his own chambers and kept him always on the lookout for peeping eyes. 

Whether from understanding or from some possessive standard of modesty, Madame McGonagall had seen his assignment, seen Lady Selwyn’s sharp anticipation and the sudden exodus of the Potter’s messenger birds, and procured him a heavy stack of veils. Ones that hung from just below his eyes, ones that shrouded his entire head and decolletage, in many colors and fabrics and specifically some which matched several sets of new and very modest overwear. He wore them all diligently, though he hated the restriction. 

Lady Selwyn, of course, didn’t share his disquiet. She displayed what she could of him like a prized stallion, set about using him as much she could before he was gone, gorging herself on what luxuries she could manage before the other shoe inevitably dropped. 

She wasn’t stupid. She’d interrogated him in that indirect way of hers, suspicious of good things as anyone who hoped to live a long life should be, but Harry was honest in his ignorance and recounted back the oddity of selection day to her with appropriate confusion. His noble mother was sure to have sniffed out her own sources on the matter, but if she'd learned anything more than what Harry already knew then she didn’t tell him, and since she continued to lavish him with her praise and gifts and attentions, she was at least comfortable enough with the circumstance to tie herself to his reputation. 

Still, Harry was left under more than one watchful eye most days. His noble mother, McGonagall, the two imperial guard which had arrived with his rank assignment, the maids, occasionally Med-wizard Blishwick, the little kitchen boy who’d taken to following him around just out of sight. He hadn’t a moment alone. 

Which made it all the more remarkable when his mother snuck him away, 

They’d been walking along the compound wall, Charles reciting yet another poem about the moon or wine or something equally ridiculous. He had challenged the young master Montague to a game of finishing couplets, but before Montague could reject him came a deep crack and rumble from across the wall. Shouting, buzzing, the air beginning to smoke. Then there were doxies, one at first, and then they were all swarming. A dozen or more. Divebombing staff, biting at the guests. 

Lily tugged frantically at his sleeve from behind a hedge, Harry stumbled after her. She stopped just a moment at a patch of dull orange flowers and lit just one of them aflame. It sparked, Lily kept pulling him, fast and desperate, the petals smoldered. 

His mother tugged at him again, “Come,” she barked. She couldn’t whisper, the shouting from the wall too loud, “before it reaches center.” 

Center? Harry didn’t ask, following her dumbly. He startled himself into a jog, or a hop, awkward and gangly and swaying on his platforms. His mother rounded the footpaths efficiently, but Harry tipped dangerously along the dirt. He hissed; hands collecting scrapes and splinter where he fell and steadied himself. 

They were halfway past the kitchens when the smolder must have reached center. First a soft hissing splatter, then a pause. Another hiss, higher, and another and another and soon enough it started to crackle and sound like fireworks. He didn’t look back, but he heard the shouts change. 

“FIRE!” 

His mother’s face was grim and satisfied. “Pollen ignites, you know,” she pushed him down and through the courtyard, towards a destination she had yet to tell him. “Explodes, you could say, when the flower ejects it airborne like some do, especially touch-reactive species.” She pushed him then towards an unfamiliar building, a little stone hut with no windows and mostly covered by foliage. Lily continued, “How terrible today the kitchen is being audited, that the oils are out and all manner of things are in the air. It’s very smart of you to take cover in the springhouse, darling. Too bad you didn’t bring a lantern; I suppose you won’t be able to see much – but all you really need to do is _listen._ ” 

And then his mother spun away, hiking her skirts up and wading out through some bushes like a madwoman and leaving Harry to stare at the springhouse door while he gathered his bearings. His ankle ached and protested as he came forward, but there was smoke blowing in from where they’d come from and that meant the wind was blowing towards him. 

The springhouse. Even if his mother had not said it, it was where he now had to go. He could not run on his ankle and he had no way of knowing when the fire would reach him, especially with the wind pushing it faster his way. Stone wouldn’t burn of course, but the smoke – would he be safe from the smoke? 

No choice but to test it, he supposed. Harry reached the door, the light only just peaking inside. The stone inside looked slick so he balanced against the way, managed to jerk his shoes off, and tentatively slid his way inside. The door slapped heavily shut behind him, plunging the room into blackness. 

“Hello, Harry,” said the dark, calm and soft and pleasant. 

Gods, he was beginning to make a pattern out of these secret, darkened meetings wasn’t he? 

Harry leaned back against the cool stone wall. The air was wet and muggy, making it harder to breathe from under his veil. “Er, hello,” he said, realizing that was probably the polite thing to say to a stranger who had apparently convinced his mother to commit grand arson so they could talk. So Harry could listen, if that was a distinction that made a difference. 

“I hope you’ll excuse my discourtesy, Harry, but I can’t give you my name in turn,” came the voice again, “it’s bold to ask, but please do not try to name me at all. Do not linger on who I am, or who I might be. If you have a thought which asks that, you should remark to yourself how unimportant that thought is, and in fact, how unimportant I am.” 

That was a strange thing to ask, a very convoluted thing to ask, and Harry almost thought about why a person would ask it, but he realized just soon enough that this line of thought would, itself, define the voice in the darkness. 

“Then this is quite the conundrum. If I cannot think about you then I cannot think if I’d like to do as you suggest and I cannot trust you.” Harry said, trying hard not to think at all but for once in his life thinking a bit too much. “It would be stupid of me to not think though who you are or what you want, but if I did and found I shouldn’t have, I’d assume I’d be all the worse for it.” 

“You are entering this a bit blind,” the dark agreed, light and humorous and purposeful. Harry huffed a disbelieving laugh. 

More puzzles and double meanings and flowery euphemism, he’d gotten quite good all this recently. To call him blind was not unintentional, but this voice did not seem the type to jibe – or if it was, it had missed many an opportunity even thus far. So what then? 

Harry was quite practically blind at the moment, he couldn’t see, but he’d done that to himself. He knew he was without a lantern, and he walked into what was quite clearly a suspicious setup anyway. He trusted his mother’s judgement, what more an extension of trust could this be? 

“I’m...listening.” he said, as if that was perhaps some sort of password. 

Whether it was or not, the voice let out a soft _ah_ almost like the click of a tongue, something more sorrowful leeching in. “You are beginning, Mr. Potter, one of the deadliest games that has ever existed. It’s full of lavish clothes, and garden parties, and a great amount of what will feel like nothing important at all. It will be easy for one to forget they’re playing a game at all, or lose sight of the stakes at play.” 

“I don’t care for the stakes,” Harry retorted, “I don’t want power and I don’t want to ‘play the game’. I’m just Harry, and I just want to get on with what I can salvage of my life.” 

“I hope you get to,” the voice said. In its halted pause the air whispered _you won’t be able. “_ Though, I don’t think you understand what is at stake. I’ve heard you’ve been given quite a bit of notice, my boy. Voldemort is a threat to you and your mother now, he’s quite tenacious once he’s taken interest.” 

If the casual use of _that_ name shocked him, there was no one to see it in the dark. “There’s nothing about me to be interested in.” 

“I think we both know that’s not true.” 

“Well I don’t see why it isn’t.” Even as he said it, it felt like a lie. It wasn’t, there was little special about him, but his ranking had left something unsettled in his stomach. More than that, his excuse felt like not enough. Whoever this voice was that spoke such a feared name so freely, they had said his mother was in danger with as much surety as anyone could. The calmness of his tone was all the more frightening, instilled all the more fear. “What?” he asked. 

The voice was quiet for what felt like far too long. “While it’s always preferable to attack from high ground, the climb is often more dangerous than the battle you hope to win. Still, a mountain at your back has its benefits – though I would caution not all peaks are steady. Some avalanche. Some harbor volcanoes, active or dormant. You must be careful in where you make your bed, lest it be destroyed in some manner of carelessness.” 

Harry couldn’t help his incredulity. “That’s your advice? Find a mountain to lean on?” 

The voice only seemed grave in response. “Eek out whatever advantages you can no matter how small, seek people you can trust in a wholly untrustworthy place, but the harem could not maintain itself if its inhabitants were independently powerful and so it will stamp out any attempt to be so. These are your choices, you either weather a storm or you stop it.” 

“You cannot stop a storm,” Harry warned. 

“No more than we can topple a god, I suppose.” 

The breath in Harry’s chest fell still and eerie, but his heart beat faster despite it. He had to leave, he couldn’t be here, he couldn’t hear this. His slick feet fell heavy on the flagstones, feeling his way blindly for the door. 

“It is fortunate though, that Voldemort is neither a storm or a god,” continued the voice, calm, no louder than it had been this entire time, somehow undisturbed by the dangerous words it spoke. “He is a _man_ , even if he dislikes the truth of it himself. A man who’s done many impressive things, but also a man who has committed a great many more atrocities. He needs to be stopped and it will no different than stopping any other man, in the end.” 

Harry had stilled from his clumsy search for the door, though he couldn’t think why. He should just leave – chance the fires outside rather than this treason. “You call the Dark Lord a threat to my mother and then you ask _this_ of me?” He thought it might have come as a hiss, but for the failure of his throat to make more than a bare whisper. 

“No,” countered the voice. “I have not directed you in anything untoward, Harry. I simply urge you to look, and to think about what is _right_ rather than what is comfortable.” Comfort, this voice spoke of _comfort_ as if Harry understood the concept. The ache of his battered hands beat hot against the springhouse’s cold and Harry felt the weight of it very suddenly, below his stifling layers, through this body which was no longer wholly his, ending in the tight of his throat and the unnamable feeling building there. The voice came again and Harry wanted to shut his ears, but he didn’t dare. “Now - I hope this has been a thoroughly unproductive conversation for you, my boy, for I have said only things you have already known and asked of you only what you might have otherwise done. Unremarkable though it was, I am glad to have spoken with you.” 

A lantern on the far wall flickered on then and Harry’s head snapped towards it, a wane flicker in the dark that illuminated very little. The room brightened despite it, and Harry peered back again to the now open door to the springhouse and the green-paths smoking beyond. He took the lantern and brandished across the room anyway, but the nothing he found there offered little peace of mind. 

* * *

A courier from the Department of Divination finally came with the summons for Harry’s entry to the Imperial Palace not two days from the fire. No word had yet come from the Department of Defense, so Harry resigned himself to never see his father again. 

It hurt less than he thought it would. 

He didn’t walk the gardens with Lady Selwyn and Charles and their guests anymore. A guard had accompanied the courier and stayed at the compound, a silent sentry in oily black leather, veiled headpieces, and macabre silver masks. A directive one of them had produced explained they were to protect Harry from dissident interference on his way to the Forbidden City, but the guards seemed to watch _him_ more than anything else. 

This was all standard procedure, his Gugu reassured him. He imagined it was. Running away had become increasing attractive to him, but any real thoughts of it had been lulled into complacency by the sheer abstractness of his departure. Now it was all here at once and he was to leave in less than two days. Perhaps this was kinder, to know how closely he was watched. Running from the Dark Lord never worked, anyway. He'd heard the stories. Terrible stories. 

He spent his last night burning incense in the temple. Most of what he was bringing with him had never left its packaging, the maids probably just stacked the tailor’s boxes in the cart. His brides-gifts were arranged by Lady Selwyn; aside from the _guzheng_ he had since earned with strained smiles and aching fingers, he neither knew or cared what she sent. His mother was sure to find Madame McGonagall an easy enough ally in sequestering his more sentimental additions. Harry found himself an unnecessary addition to his marriage preparations, even the guard was more involved with it than he was – blatantly sorting through his packages to ensure he brought no contraband. 

Harry didn’t realize how quiet this left the temple until a fuss outside broke his meditation. He ignored it at first as just furious whispers and distant stomping, but it didn’t abate and Harry grew curious. Standing from his kneeling-cushion, he glanced back towards the temple doors. 

One of the silver skull-faces of the guard stared back, unblinking. It almost made Harry turn back around but he was already standing so he swallowed his intimidation and stepped closer to the door. The mask glinted in the candlelight, tilting to watch him, but the horrible silver of their hands didn’t move to stop him. 

“-cestral rites, you cannot stop me from entering!” he began to make out. Charles, the idiot. 

Harry took hold of half the double doors and opened it just enough to peer out, taken aback momentarily by the crossed spears of the guard barring way. “They seem rather capable of it to me, brother mine,” he pointed out drolly. 

Charles’ handsome face snapped over. “Harry,” he demanded, “let me through.” 

“How?” Harry asked, eying again the spears, the eerie metal of the guards’ exposed skin, the black pits of their eyes. “I do not order them. What do you want?” 

“To talk,” Charles said in that way that had always meant he thought Harry was an idiot. But Harry looked down at the basket the other was awkwardly carting, full of bottles and incense and desserts and roughly hacked flowers and a hand-broom and a knife. Charles followed his gaze down and flushed up to his ears, “...to the ancestors. I came to talk to the ancestors. Clean their tablets, like I always do.” 

“And eat mooncakes, with no tea even, and burn-” Harry sniffed deeply, only to sneeze, “mango incense? Why do you even have that?” 

“As if you're so pious. Maybe they like it.” 

“It’ll smell revolting. You’ve certainly never burned that here, someone would have complained _._ ” 

“Well, you don’t own the shrines.” 

Harry considered hitting him, just reaching over to give him a good smack and escaping back inside, but the scent of cedar and camphor was heavy in his nose already and the addition of mango was going to give him a headache if he let it. “I’ll leave, then.” 

The spears parted obligingly, pushing Charles out of his way. Harry started down the steps, Charles squawking behind him. “Wait, no wait – just listen to me.” 

“Don’t you have tablets to clean?” Harry threw back. 

Something clattered and Charles hurried to walk beside him, basket not in sight and pressing close to Harry’s side. “Okay, look, I wanted-” he said, but looked around at the three guard in a tight triangle around him. “Give us some space!” 

The guard didn’t let up, neither did Harry give him a break. “If you wanted privacy, you shouldn’t’ve been so suspicious. I’ll not be complicit in whatever you’re doing” 

Charles seemed to consider himself then, tone changing to something more formal, “It is not untoward,” he said, stiff and grumpy, “I did not want to unnecessarily cloud your mind with thoughts of the past, but I did sit my NEWTs this year.” 

The sharp retorts Harry had prepared fell flat on his tongue. He’d forgotten about the NEWTs. His life had changed so suddenly, so totally, he’d forgotten that it hadn’t for everybody else. Not that he believed Charles deliberately didn’t mention the exams out of a concern for his welfare, far more likely his brother was just uncertain of his results and didn’t want to undermine himself by talking up what he couldn’t back, but he was rather still glad he hadn’t been left to wallow in the misery of never knowing how he measured up, what he might have been – if only. 

“Are congratulations in order?” Harry finally asked. 

“Exceeds expectations in Philosophy and Potions. Outstandings in Arithmancy, Economics, and History. Mum’s been trying to talk over Uncle Henry about it.” The Ministry of State then, that explained several of Lady Selwyn’s guest choices. 

“Well you’d best stop with such half-baked plans; Lord Malfoy doesn’t have a nice reputation,” Harry said. Charles shrugged, the mahogany of his curls catching the dying light. He had their father’s attractive ruggedness, his brash charm, easy attitude, and if Harry was a better man he would have worried for where that combination would bring Charles. Instead he saw his brother’s casual beauty and wondered what made them so different, why Charles was good enough for a career and Harry was condemned to whatever the harem was, why Charles had ignored or bullied Harry all his life and now felt entitled to Harry’s support in his political career. Harry was supposed to roll over and beg for his brother’s advancement, like that wasn’t demeaning. “There are too many unknowns for me to make promises, even if I was inclined to.” 

Charles gave him a huffing, annoyed look and spoke again in that degrading way he was with Harry. “I don’t need your help. Whatever this whole thing is, I think it’s a mistake. Just don’t fuck up so badly they take it out on me.” 

* * *

“I will miss you,” Harry said to Madame McGonagall. It was the first time he’d allowed himself such sentiment, and it wasn’t even to the person who most deserved it. He said it anyway. As if by confessing such to this woman he might reach his mother too. As if he could make up for the color that drained ever more from Lily Evans and for the harrowed visage she’d become. As if he was a good son, and not this selfish, ornate doll. 

The Gugu swayed with the force of the palanquin, lifting a cool eyebrow at him. “I have done but my duty, my Lady Potter.” There wasn’t much more he could say to that, so he said nothing. 

He weathered a familiar sachet in his hands, its scent long-since gone faint. He had taken to keeping it in a little box at his bedside, taking it out deep in the night when no-one could see his trepidation or how he worried the stitching along its face. During the day he tried to forget it like he tried to forget most everything about selection day, but when he’d woken in the night and found it packed away and out of reach he’d been panicked, restless. The guard had startled and Harry had woken a maid to fetch it in the end. 

He’d barely slept after that, heaving great breaths into the fabric. Even now, the palanquin ride to the Forbidden City felt like a strange reversal of his journey home so long ago. The same Gugu, but he had the space to let her ride now. The same sachet, but the scent had faded now. The same fear. That was no different. 

Their procession took much longer than Harry’s first trip. The palanquin traveled now not just the distance betwixt Potter Manor and one of the Emperor's central halls but rather venturing deep into the twists of the city and the back palace. They stopped only once, ceding way to an uncovered sedan chair with a procession of over 20 attendants. Harry didn’t catch a look at the rider’s face but they were glamorously adorned, and from their body language looked exceedingly bored. 

Here too servants bowed at the sides of the path, heads so low they almost touched the ground, but Harry could see now that these roads were _made_ for it. They were four times as wide as they needed be and in their centers was a strip paved differently than the rest. Along this strip the litters were carried, and where too the lower concubines walked with their maids at bent elbow, and where maids escorted finished luxuries. All the rest – guard, eunuch, or maid – walked the side paths, deferring to the central path with a bow. 

The nuance was complicated, but made an odd sort of sense. Guards deferred to litters same as maids, but they only bowed rather than knelt and they didn’t stop for anything but. Some maids bowed for other maids or various eunuchs, but others didn’t, and none bowed to guards even if they stopped to let them pass. Guards wore standard uniforms, eunuchs had slight variations in their belts and trimming, and the maids were varied and colorful – but only according to some unseen categorization, and girls of the same dress never varied in accessory. 

There must have been some ranking to the palanquins too, for three others deferred to him. They were all in a line and identical except for a few of each’s attendants. The other palanquins were of a similar size to his, though he couldn’t tell if they otherwise matched his own. 

Madame McGonagall had not explained any of this before, and even as Harry watched, she made no move to do so now. She only looked increasingly annoyed as time passed, eventually opening the grate behind her to ask crossly, “To which palace are we headed?” 

One of the footmen huffed something back but Harry could hear little but the panting of his breath. The Gugu quickly shut the grate and scrutinized Harry as if she hadn’t spent the last two and a half weeks with him. 

“Is there a problem?” 

“The Belvedere of Falling Petals,” she enunciated too sharply for her normal manner, “Of the Myriad Arboretum.” 

It wasn’t one of the palaces he knew, and he’d memorized dozens under McGonagall’s instruction. The Forbidden City had hundreds of areas, thousands of rooms, all of which had names and purposes. He hadn’t had time for them all, but he was sure he’d memorized at least the relevant things. Still, while it sounded familiar, he couldn’t quire recall what he knew of the realm of Myriad Arboretum. 

Each concubine had their own rooms, but individual palaces were arranged in shared wizarding spaces the Palace called realms, fed by the magics of its occupants and managed by an upper harem member as show of their magical talents. Noble Consort Inés Avery called hers the Floating Palaces, Pín Fleur Delacour managed the Lake Gardens, and for the Myriad Arboretum - 

“Her Highness, the Pín of Wonder, will not expect you to pay daily respects and does not yet hold any regular gathering you should need to account for,” Madame McGonagall instructed, face still unreadable, “I do worry for you luck, Lady Potter.” 

“It is bad lodging, then.” 

The set of the Gugu’s mouth twisted strangely. “It is scenic. Very serene.” 

Which meant it was out of the way, likely overlooked. His luck, indeed. Promoted to a rank far above his station, then shoved into some forgotten corner of the city – what sense did that make? 

The palanquin soon enough tipped as it lowered to the ground and he stepped out to the road. A hunched eunuch tilted a long parasol above to block the sun, though the heat wasn’t nearly bad enough for it, and Harry looked up at the gates, then up again past them. This area of the wall was different than the rest – tree-tops peeked above the towering walls, an inconsistency in an otherwise painstakingly uniform city. 

Harry grinned; his circumstance really, really didn’t make sense – but this seemed more than fine. A higher pay grade from his rank, and more excuses to not involve himself with politics from his rooms' location, and now this realm seemed a welcome break from the stuffy city. It was awfully convenient. 

He stepped through the gates, and the whole atmosphere changed. What were before the peaks of a few very tall trees suddenly shifted to rows and rows of them, larger than anything he could imagine. Trees he couldn’t name, flowers different than anything he’d seen. He walked a few paces down and there was a second gate along the side of the path. It was half-obscured by foliage and not nearly as grand as it might have been – perhaps purposefully meant to be insulting – but Harry rather liked that about it. 

The little placard atop it read “Belvedere of Falling Petals” and so he walked in. 

* * *

Belvedere of Falling Petals Inspo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess who the Pín of Wonder is? (It's not really that tricky, and she won't come into play for a while yet, I just have so many outfit inspo pics for her so I had to write her in a little early.) 
> 
> I swear I intend to resolve all these little things I'm putting in, it just takes a lot of the good-good thoughts 'cause plot is really weird in this setting. 
> 
> Please comment! Any thoughts are welcome!


	6. Consider the Quail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're finally in Forbidden City but...it's still just exposition really. Am sorry. This is hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder:  
> Meimei - 'little sister'. Used for lower ranked concubines by higher ranked concubines, regardless of age.  
> Jiejie - 'older sister'. The reverse.  
> Niangniang - 'mother' or sometimes 'goddess'. Used for concubines above a certain rank. 
> 
> Oh god, there’s so much narration in this fic I didn’t realize it would be so bad but this is just what it’s come to.
> 
> RANKINGS. So these were very heavily influenced by politics and emotional connection, but they weren’t necessarily documented that way. At least, there aren’t documents in English written that way. So I'll say again - what I'm writing is for reasons of plot and is not accurate history. Given that, here's how to contextualize the ranks. 
> 
> Imagine Dāyìng and Chángzài are like, relatively similar. There are still stark differences between the two, e.g. better allowance and you get more attendants if that’s your thing, but both are basically blips on the radar of anyone important. Dāyìng never really see the Emperor, they don’t get invited to much at all, and nobody with power would recognize their name or face. Chángzài will have possibly slept with someone important, but that someone important probably doesn’t know their name. Even if they captured someone’s interest, it will fade. If they haven’t been promoted within 2-5 years, they’re back to square one. All around though, it’s a very realistic goal to get to Chángzài. A single really good night with the Emperor, or in this fic also a Minister, could get you this promotion. Female attendants ( a maid the Emperor has taken an interest in - basically a title you’d get to prevent you from leaving the forbidden city and which would give you the ability to get checked by imperial doctors in case you’re pregnant – it might get you other small things but it’d mostly be clout from other serving people,) can probably be made Chángzài with minimal fuss. Other Chángzài would definitely give them shit for being low-born but this wouldn’t really be a deciding reason for anyone above them to care about them. 
> 
> The jump from Chángzài to Guìrén is more significant, at least in my story. That’s generally the trend, it’s compoundingly harder to get each successive rank. 
> 
> To understand why I’m first going to explain why Guìrén to Pín is a steep step. There’s no cap to how many people can be Guìrén which is important because getting a limited position (the upper harem,) means even if you age, become less attractive/sick, or fuck-up in any way that doesn’t get you demoted or killed - you’re still relevant to the Emperor. You get named specifically in day-to-day operations and even if someone new enters the harem, they’re literally incapable of taking your spot. They can take an adjacent spot and even surpass you, but if there’s no more room for Pín, Guìrén realistically can’t get promoted because you’d have to make a new spot or have someone jump two ranks – both of which would cause larger political instability and backlash. You also get advantages from just the convivence factor of limited ranks, e.g. if the Emperor wants to go on a hunting trip he can just go ‘yeah idk bring everyone who wants to come that’s Consort and up’. He’d could still additionally request specific people from elsewhere in the harem, but given he ostensibly promotes people whose company he enjoys, anyone who gets a special invitation is either a temporary favorite or is going to get promoted anyway. The determining factor of group outings is really size, the palace figures out how much of a hassle they’re willing to put up with and then they start inviting from the top down. They’re blanket invites and you wouldn’t give an invite to the whole of rank 4 that didn’t encompass rank 3, you feel? If you invited rank 4s to something the Emperor would have to specifically uninvite someone of a higher rank, if he didn’t want them to go. Basically, one of the differences is if you get included/unincluded by default. Lower harem is all default unincluded. In the upper harem, each successive rank has a higher chance of being default included to any outing. Empress is obviously special for entirely different reasons, but this fic doesn’t need to worry about that right now. 
> 
> Guìrén do not have that cap-barrier. Since it’s hard to break into Pin, it makes sense to have guìrén be made relatively exclusive too. You want a class that is exclusive enough to be a considerable honor so you can use it as political bargaining chips, but not so exclusive these people have permanent sway in the palace. Don’t worry, there's an in-universe explanation for why Harry is there, he isn’t just obscenely decked in plot armor – bureaucracy is complicated and The Boys ™ have their reasons for doing what they do.

Image references: 

This is a concubine and her maids from Yanxi palace. It's later Qing, I'm not a fan of most of their styles, but Ao3 doesn't host photos so we're stuck with whatever's hosted elsewhere on the internet - which means limited screenshots of stuff.

This is an example of how concubines without sedan chairs walk around, with a bunch of attendants and eunuchs at the back. Particularly favored maids might get a unique dress and hair style to show she's special. (I assume this is also to give her clout and basically tell people she's under protection so don't mess with this one specifically, but that's just extrapolation.) 

However - something like this is how I'd imagine McGonagall would dress. Maybe in a darker color, but it would still have to be a neutral tone. This is fancier than you typically see maids wear in C-dramas, but senior maids are more than just maids in this universe. McGonagall is a skilled witch (behind the scenes info warning I guess? Idk if it'll get brought up but it might be a spoiler: she's only a maid because she was a political prisoner and it was death or binding herself in service to the palace. So she's still recognized as being powerful and gets respect for that. I'm drawing here from how some dynasties turned death sentences turning into castration, the new eunuchs either being enslaved by the palace or then sent to do manual labor. )

I like this sort of dress for Draco when he comes in, though obv with his hair up and no basket. Black would be in a dark, subtle brocade. Green would be much less subtle. (Whenever I show pics there's prob a lot of things I'd change in any given one, but that's just because there aren't pics that perfectly show the image I want. It's a growing fascination, but there are thousands and thousands of different things you can do with this style of clothing and we've only really seen recreations and inspiration for a little while. So when I talk about thing's I'd change for this story, I never want to give the impression that the artist is doing things less than perfectly. I just can't draw or recreate these things, so I want to give you at least some basis for what I'm thinking.)

I like this dress for Harry in the second half of this chapter, though again, hair up. 

Forgot to put this in last chapter, but here are photos of the finger talons (the concubine above is also wearing them). They're not really talons historically, they're fingernail protectors. Soz for the low quality image, same reason as above. 

The shooooes! I forgot to explain the shoes! They're so interesting. So these are flower bowl shoes, they only appeared in later Qing. But wait, you ask, why are you including them then? You don't really like Qing fashion. Correct! However, these shoes were a direct replacement to foot-binding and I don't want to include foot-binding. (Squick warning: ~~In researching this chapter, I found this one source that said bound feet were considered the most erotic part of the body. It implied some men tried to fuck the folded portion of the foot. Fun fact, I guess? Dunno if I believe the latter bit, sounds like something people might make up to promote xenophobia tbh.)~~

It's explained in the chapter why they wanted to replicate these effects. What I don't understand is how these stayed on your feet??

I couldn't find any examples of the banquet halls I was going for, but the table set up can be extrapolated off of this if you're unfamiliar with how individual tables work while dining with a lot of people. 

Also - just general note that wouldn't fit in the beginning section: The Forbidden City is a giant palace, made up of the back (inner) palace and the front (outer) palace. It also contains many dwellings for harem members, which are each individually called palaces. Mistresses of significant enough stature can also refer to themselves in the third person as "this palace".

I recognize how this might get confusing, lmao. For that reason, if I refer to something as the Palace, capitalized, I mean it as the larger palace, i.e. as synonymous with the forbidden city, and I'll be trying to refer to individual places as other names - e.g. the Belvedere of Falling Petals. I just want to make note of this because there might be times where stylistically I'll still refer to the concubine's houses as palaces and I don't want you to get too confused. 

(China has a lot of names, man. I'm not even using courtesy names. Those are like title/names you get once you've passed puberty. So even if people are friends with you and would call you by your first name in western society, they'd only call you by that. Given names would be much more intimate/rude.)

* * *

The first thing Harry noticed about the Belvedere of Falling Petals was the way it led the eye _up_. 

Potter Manor was an expansive, flat thing. It had its carefully sectioned woods and manicured hedges, but the main courtyards were paved in flagstone. Flowerboxes cut hard partitions through the space, neat and orderly. 

These rooms were built on a water garden, fish and plants and odd creatures floated past just out of sight, disappeared under the curve of a bridge, peaked back through from a pier off the back-end of one of the rooms. The walkways were necessarily leveled, decks that walked onto the water, wide flats of sitting space a half-foot above water, the arching bridges that connected the rooms, a curtained veranda coming off the second floor, the spiraling watch of an aviary. The plants were such mirrored too, the lily-pads on the water, the potted bush on the walkways, the trees rising up around in a gloriously floral canopy. There were levels and more levels, giving the small space breath like he couldn’t have imagined. 

The second thing Harry noticed was the bustle around him. Not so immediately noticed because of the Belvedere’s winding layout, but maids and eunuchs heaved buckets and firewood and mysterious boxes all across the bridges and between rooms. 

He glanced back towards the now-closed gate, but behind him was only the bowing eunuch who carried his parasol. Madame McGonagall had already left him. She could no longer tell him what he was supposed to do. He was suddenly so very aware how alone he was, how powerless he was. He was trapped – not only in this city, but in this courtyard, in this dress, in these shoes. He was like a baby, completely dependent on the people around him. 

As if to prove himself capable, he took several steps towards the room all the servants were shuttling things to – just beyond a first arched bridge. It was not so steep, but Madame McGonagall had been giving him higher and higher shoes for the past days and Harry had not brought with him any of the Potters’ maids, so he had none to hold his arm. 

He swayed dangerously as he walked, Harry darted his arm out to grip the railing. The platforms were specifically designed to be harder to walk in, their height came from a pedestal at the center of the foot which prevented the natural pivot of one's ankles. It altered the wearer’s gait so they stepped shortly and swayed as they walked, balancing entirely to one side and then the other, such that their step-shakes swung uniformly like a pendulum. It was supposed to be attractive. 

Harry clung to the railing and waddled forward, knees bent and near supporting himself entirely by his arms and torso. He set down a foot, bowed forward a bit to grab the bridge in front of him, and hoisted his other foot through to meet its pair. He was sure he looked like a particularly well-dressed hag, staggering along as he was, hunched over and arms splayed, glaring because each lunge brought the sun into his eyes both from above and as reflected back from the water. 

The eunuch behind him clearly knew this was wrong, but didn’t seem to know what to do about it. He started to stutter and so Harry politely wretched himself around to listen to the poor man, but the eunuch averted his eyes and just gaped like a trout as soon as he did. Harry didn’t mean to glare, really, it was just these damned shoes. 

“Mistress,” called a high, haughty sort of voice. Behind him again. He twisted back around. 

There bowed a young maid. Her back was straight, her hands were clasped tight and uniformly, her skirts were perfectly ironed. A dutiful example of a Palace maid except only for her hair, which refused to lay quite flat. It curled at the roots wherever it wasn’t pulled perfectly taut and then even pulled such it looked imperfect - like bent and then unbent wire. 

Harry spared a hand to wave her up from her bow and her eyes flicked up daringly as she stood – not as much a dutiful example of a maid then. Her eyes traced his line of sight to her hair and her lips pulled sourly. “May Mistress allow this lowly servant to guide her,” the girl said, sweetly, although Harry could tell already she clearly wasn’t. 

“Him.” Harry corrected. Though Harry wished the girl would look embarrassed or show some sign that she had genuinely mistaken him with his back turned, she only dipped her head obligingly. Something in his chest twisted even though it wasn’t at all rational. Frustration, perhaps. He was a ‘young mistress’ now, and so people thought him somehow a woman. He wanted to shout that he was not, kick off these _stupid_ shoes, and go play a game of quidditch. 

What he did instead was raise his arm, so the maid might steady and lead him across the way. His steps were still painstakingly slow with her help, the ivory of his platforms unbending and slippery against the wood’s curve, but they made it across. The ferrying servants stopped when he came near, kneeling in an increasingly, disturbingly, familiar way but they at least called out greetings like none of the rest had. 

They still called him ‘Young Mistress’ and ‘Treasure’ but at least they were referring to him. How strange, the similarities between his previously disenfranchised self and now – he wouldn’t have thought powerful people struggled to be seen like this too. The world changed, and yet it didn’t. 

The maid at his arm twisted when they were just about a half _zhàng_ from the room the servants had been bustling around. “Announce him,” she hissed at the eunuch behind Harry, “you should have done so already.” 

He blanched, or at least Harry thought he did, the hat was making it hard to tell, and folded the parasol to step around and to the doorway. The maid squinted sourly at him through the sudden sun and the eunuch caught her glare, clearing his throat a little too much. 

“Uh, _His Highness, Potter Guiren, enters!_ ” The eunuch called out in a sort of elongated way that might have sounded stately or majestic if his voice wasn’t so squeaky. Then he slid open the door with a bow and Harry stepped into his private rooms. 

Only, they had a bunch of Imperial Med-wizards and their assistants in them – so they weren’t really that private. A sound like birds taking off filled the room, but after blinking away the impossibly high ceilings of his new rooms Harry realized it was only the flap and rustle of a dozen robes against the floorboards. These people had slitted overskirts Harry wouldn't have thought to notice two weeks before, but now he recognized them as the same he’d seen on the Ministry officials that had come to seek favor from Lady Selwyn. 

The skirts were thick woven things they flicked out before themselves as they knelt, portable altar cloths so they might not dirty their hands on the ground as they kowtowed. Harry might have thought it clever if not for how aware he was that the servants all around him did not have the same. He wondered if that had more reason than just income disparity, but then again he remembered his own knees and hands, how they ached and bruised and scraped after kneeling for Lady Selwyn, and he didn’t think any income disparity quite justified the difference. 

“Please, sit comfortably,” Harry said to the Med-wizards, motioning towards the chairs and pillows around the room like it wasn’t the first time he’d ever been here. A maid in the same pale green as the rest he’d seen around knelt just in the shadow of the doorway.Hoping she was one of his Harry spoke over her head, “Do we yet have tea? Fetch our honored guests some.” 

She raised herself parallel to the floor, only to have to bow again to accept his word, and quickly got up. She backed herself out of the room, still deep in a bow, to presumably go about making tea (or at least putter around until the Med-wizards left, if they didn’t have it.) 

The maid at Harry’s arm quickly pulled Harry a stool and he gratefully took it. His feet fucking hurt, but also his sitting prompted the rest of the room to do the same. Three of the strangers all sat and six others each jostled to stand in a hunched, subservient, sort of way behind them. With this organization he could at least begin to place the embroideries of the robes as different statuses, given they all wore the same cloth. 

One last man stood alone in the middle of the room. the Imperial Med-wizard's blue and complicated embroidery matching the sitting men, who Harry assumed must be the senior doctors. His face was familiar, but all of the Med-wizards looked vaguely familiar. Something about the spongey wetness of their faces blurred together even the different tones and features that Harry was used to identifying people by. 

“My Lady,” huffed the man in a way that made Harry suspect this was Blishwick, the doctor he’ d previously seen, “We beg your forgiveness for not greeting you properly, this unworthy one’s ears are bad and I did not hear you come in.” 

Harry could see the maid watching him shrewdly and he imagined his newly appointed personal eunuch, still bowed at the door, was similarly attentive. He didn’t really know how to respond to that one. He couldn’t really say ‘no problem’, or ‘my bad’, or ‘let’s all drop the shite and just get on with whatever,’ no matter how much he wanted to. 

“There is inevitably much commotion today,” he settled on saying, though even that blamed the servants more than he would like. “I am sure your esteemed selves are similarly occupied. I hope visiting this humble place has not troubled you.” 

The man smiled smugly at Harry. “Your highness is so kind to be concerned. We only come to verify your health and oversee the preparations for your purification. Of course, I must admit to some ulterior motives. I see you did not bring a family maid, as you said you might not – I hope Hermione will make good substitute. She has been quite bright in helping around the apothecary, I guarantee her usefulness.” 

The maid beside him gave a half-bow, directed somewhere between Harry and the man at least now confirmed to be Blishwick. Was she bowing to him or her former master? It was vague in a very deliberate, calculated way.

Harry smiled back to the man, though he really wished the other hadn’t initiated such posturing so openly. He couldn’t tell if this looked more like Harry or Blishwick was currying favors, but he must have already made some sort of impression on the Med-wizards. This was not an intended or welcome turn in his plan. 

If he had much of a plan. He’d thought he had, but it felt rather more like an abstract goal now - _don’t make a scene and live quietly as you can_. Evidently this required just as much complication as actual Palace politics did because as it stood now, not making a scene required of him participation in the scenes other people made of him, which was entirely counter to the point of his plan. Or his goal. Whatever. He really hoped Blishwick turned out to be as well-regarded as Madame McGonagall had thought him, and that he hadn’t just set a viper in his owlery. 

The tea came. The Med-wizards' assistants ported into one of Harry’s unnoticed side rooms a great silver basin. They busied about this room while Harry and the other senior wizards drank their tea, scaring off maids from coming close to the objects they brought there. Once the room had reached some level of readiness Harry couldn’t pretend to understand, he was ushered in and through a series of procedures which were superficially less intimate than Med-wizard Blishwick’s visits at the Manor and yet just as intimidating. 

The wizards circled him with their wands. Slowly at first, prodding him about various rune-work drawn on the floors. They confirmed a lot of the same things Blishwick had, at first. They confirmed he was who he said he was and not an imposter under clever spellwork, cataloged him for any new injuries, ensured his ears were healing well and that he no longer had any parasites in his body. They double and triple checked his virtue, that he had allowed no-one to ‘erode his dedication to the empire’. 

Then they started doing things very far removed from what Blishwick had done to him back at the Manor. They gave him tinctures and rubbed strange crystals over him. They hit different parts of him with a tuning fork and listened to the frequencies. They all worked together in a complicated ritual that sounded like he was supposed to be somehow expelling worldly impurities, but Harry wasn’t sure what came out was anything more than particularly greasy sweat and vomit. They explained none of why they were doing this and when Harry had looked like he was going to ask one of the more creased Med-wizards had scolded him as sternly as he could, given Harry was technically his superior. 

At the end, they put him in the great silver tub the wizards had brought. It was a tall, straight sided barrel filled with pearlescent ichor. The size of it forced him to curl into himself in order to fit, tucking his knees into himself like a babe. He shivered. The liquid was hot and bubbling all around him but still he shivered, inexplicably chilled. Everything around him smelled lovely, like comforting nights and aching. 

He should have been afraid. The ichor dripped from his qiqiao – ears, eyes, nostrils, and mouth – the viscosity of thick cream. He didn’t know how it had gotten inside him. But Harry couldn’t manage the fear. He was just so suddenly tired. 

Blishwick smiled at him before he left, but even as he lingered in the room to give Hermione directions on his care, he spared Harry no understanding of what had just happened. Even his directions to Hermione were less than telling – he pointed out specific bottles and packages of herbs to give Harry but these were all referred to in roundabout ways that implied Hermione didn’t know what they really were either. 

Hermione came forward with a large, ornate draping and wrapped it about his shoulders even before he drew himself up from the tub. The ichor still dripped from him, but against the cloth had the strange realization that it wasn’t wet. Slick, yes, but like brushed silk might be if only one could make it liquid. She didn’t hold his arm now, but with bare feet he didn’t need it. The assistants came to port away the tub as soon as he was modestly secured, so efficient and quick Harry couldn’t see them anymore by the time he came to the next room. 

Where all the palace servants had gathered to kneel for him. He sat on his stupidly ornate raised chair because that was where they were all facing, and because there was really no other reason for them to be gathered like this if he wasn’t supposed to, and because that was where Hermione was leading him and really, she seemed to know what was proper. 

So he did that. He was bare underneath this great snake-embroidered blanket, but he was quite sure this had not come from the Potters and certainly looked ceremonial and important. And he was still dripping ichor, but from the way the Med-wizards had spoken of his ‘purification’ it was a status marker. It was strange and it was a little gross, but he doubted these people kneeling before him would ever have the chance to leak shimmering silver goo all over the place so that made _Harry_ doing it Very Important. 

The specific implications of this Very Important Thing were somewhat lost on him, though. He certainly didn’t feel divinely endowed or purged of vice or whatever he was supposed to become. 

“Well, I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said, because he was mostly naked and very awkward and obligated to make a speech, “I am not accustomed to all this, but take care of me and I will do the same for you. If you have a problem or a dispute, come to me about it. I believe you will find me reasonable; I have no wish for extended dramatics in this compound. I do not like corporal punishments but if I am forced to dismiss you, I will report why to the Bureau of Cautious Punishments.” 

It felt clumsy and harsh to say. Noble speech patterns were complicated constructions and Harry had no practice in managing a household as large as this. He’d been part of this type of household, though, and he knew the missteps well. 

For instance - saying so firmly that he would report crimes to the Bureau was mean, as they were infamously strict and gave no quarter to ‘disposable’ servants. He didn’t want to be the reason of anyone’s death, even a thief's, but softening his language to imply so could cause more problems. It might make him feel better about himself, allow himself to believe he was a kind employer, but nobody needed him to be kind – they needed him to protect them and to not be needlessly cruel. 

Harem members were expected to throw their weight around for their interests, so the enforcement of rules and punishments was typically left to an individual Mistresses’ discretion. Passing blame for the cruelty of his action from himself to standard regulation – such as to say, ‘I will be forced to report you’ instead of ‘I will report you’ – would be a statement on Harry in itself. Either that he intended to be strictly dutiful in all things (which set himself up for hypocrisy, given his track-record) or that he intended to blame powers higher than himself every time he wanted to justify self-serving or cruel actions. 

Some people would call that cruel because of course if he had discretion to do otherwise, why should he condemn anyone to more pain if he could just dismiss them? It didn't matter to servants that in a year's time that pardoned servant could turn on their former mistress, point to the lack of formal report against them as insinuation that there were favors yet unpaid or that the servant once held particular favor, and see through some plot. Those sorts of things didn't tend to get the cooks killed, but Harry would suffer for it.

Even if Harry's entire household were, against all odds, incorruptible people, he simply could not know at this point. He might not know a year from now. The only sure way to know how much pressure it would take to crumble a person's resolve is to see that resolve crumble. Harry had to play the game like the people around him would stab him in the back, because frankly it would be very understandable for them to do so. 

* * *

“Blessings to our divine Emperor, Patron, and Lord,” Harry called out in concert with over a dozen other voices. The floor muffled his voice. An overwhelming power coming from the head platform deafened his ears to everything but the rhythm of the harem’s ceremonial recitations and the beat of his heart. His tongue only managed the words by force of several hours practice in proper pacing and tonality. “- may your rule be prosperous and your will in everything fulfilled. Blessings to the esteemed Ministers of the Empire, may your wisdom and skill ever glorify His greatness. Blessings to our venerated sisters, may you guide us in dutiful service and devotion.” 

He kowtowed again, His forehead meeting the cool metal of his bracelets, his hands the slick of tile beneath them. It was sort of funny how these skirts couldn’t be flipped for kneeling. Concubines formally had higher statuses than any official or med-wizard, but in spite of this their kneeling was allowed to be painful. Maybe it was meant to be; maybe this was some subtle way of breaking their pride and giving them something to fight against all in one. 

Half an hour more of bows and honors and speeches, Harry’s knees ached. The city’s chief eunuch called for the bowed harem members to take their seats. All of the new ladies awkwardly let themselves be directed along the vertical center of the hall, where the individual tables of their seniors would watch over them critically from behind. Harry cursed his luck in being additionally sat near the Emperor’s podium. 

He wasn’t dangerously close, he still had at least two _zhàng_ from the edge of it, but it was more than enough to make him uncomfortable. The Great Hall was laid out so every table would be visible to the head-platform. Harry tried to tell himself sitting so close wouldn’t make so much of a difference. The Emperor, the Ministers, and the Ladies who attended them – presumably whoever actually ran the harem and the whoever were the current favorites – were wasting their time if they pay him any attention. And even if they did (his strange circumstances made him fear this was the case,) Harry just had to be perfectly average and unimportant. 

It would be harder to throw off all the lower ranked concubines currently sneaking looks towards him. He was directly in their way of trying to catch the eye of the head-platform, but more than that, his own harem ranking was evidently newsworthy. There were only four newly assigned guìrén this selection and every politically inclined person would be watching them settle their allegiances. 

Harry watched what he could of the hall. The other new concubines of relatively high rank sat around him, closeness to His Majesty determining rank, and the senior concubines watched carefully from tables behind them. Draco Malfoy was across the aisle and a seat further towards the Emperor. Harry might have recognized Daphne Greengrass from her portraits. At Harry’s Emperor facing side was an East-European tribute bride, Galatea Vulchanova, and at his other was Blaise Zabini. He couldn’t catch who was behind his row, but beyond Greengrass was a woman Harry vaguely remembered had been an increasingly popular quidditch player several years prior– Cho Chang. 

Dancers and musicians began to perform in the open space at the center of the assembled U of their tables and it became harder to peek between their legs. Less tempting, too. The dancers were synchronized and amazing like street performers never had been. A fleet of servants came out with the feast’s first course, a fragrant roasted quail. 

Harry considered the quail. Blishwick’s maid, Hermione, had said that in the coming days after his purification earthly foods had the chance of interrupting the aftereffects of his purification. His body had yet to attune to the intense magics of the city and as such it was delicate. She’d badgered Harry’s new chief eunuch, Abdias, and warned off the kitchens from serving anything off of a list Blishwick had given her. 

When Harry said he wanted to hear of all disputes in his courtyard, he hadn’t thought there would be one so early – the kitchen complained of Hermione’s bossy attitude, that she didn’t have any reason to look at the list in the first place, that nitpicking so much was outside her authority. Hermione complained that she was _correct_ and that the kitchens would be sloppy otherwise. He did see where she was coming from, the list of restricted foods she’d provided was so long Harry’s eyes hurt, but he’d thought her reaction a bit much at the time. 

But when he saw the quail, Harry remembered Hermione’s vigorous speech on the dangers of black pepper and how cooks just threw it on everything without consciously thinking about it. He thought he might see some flecks of it on the bird, just there. That didn’t make sense though, this came from the royal kitchens – they wouldn’t make a mistake like that, would they? Harry considered calling back the servers to ask, but they were gone already and if it was just nothing, he didn’t want to make a scene. But he shouldn’t eat it if it was against med-wizard orders...but not eating the prepared meals would make him seem finicky, or at worst, blatantly disrespectful. 

He looked about worryingly, all down the row through to the Daiying, the others were starting to dig in as elegantly as one could. Well, most of them. Some pushed about the quail suspiciously or sniffed delicately at their soups. Harry peered through the dancer's legs, trying to get a good look at Malfoy. (If anyone knew what was going on, it was probably him.) 

He wasn’t even bothering with the food at all. Cho Chang and the rest of the senior concubines did, but neither Malfoy or Greengrass touched their food at all. Harry sat his chopsticks down too and folded his hands into his lap. 

The dance troupe left the stage and in the against the fading notes of the song came a reprimanding voice from the higher platform. “Is there a problem with our great city’s hospitality, Daphne, sweet _Meimei_?” Down the line, several of the unsure concubines quickly shoved a bite of quail into their mouths to avoid sharing such disrespect. 

Greengrass stood from her kneel and bowed. “Avery-Guìfēi,” she responded readily, “There is no match for this court’s luxuries. My hesitance is because this humble Guìrén dares not place her own pleasure above her use to the Empire. This dish has pepper, it would interfere with my aura. Please forgive my impertinence.” She held the bow for several long moments in which Harry dared not even twitch. 

“Bring the ladies something else, then,” said the same person as before. Greengrass sat. 

This repeated through five more courses, many rounds of entertainment, and consequently several hours. Dishes would be brought, there was a lavish performance (after some of which, one of Ministers or higher ranked consorts might bestow rewards if they were particularly pleased – the expense of these made Harry’s mind boggle,) and Noble Consort Avery would ask one of the people who had held out what was wrong with their dish. 

Harry had Hermione check each of the dishes after the first since she seemed to have the ingredient list memorized, but before the course of the night she came back red-faced to Harry. 

“My Lady, forgive me. I cannot figure out what is in this,” she whispered. Harry looked down at his bowl, which looked to be simple congee or perhaps a rice pudding. The performers this time were magical preformers and their act involved beautiful shimmering lights and bubbles that clouded his view not only of Malfoy, but Vulchanova and Zabini beside him. 

“What?” Harry asked, more frazzled and hungry than properly angry, “What did the kitchen say?” 

Hermione didn’t speak for a few seconds and Harry turned to really pay attention to her strangely fearful face. “They won’t tell me,” she admitted. 

“They aren’t saying at all?” 

“I - I do not know. I saw one of Malfoy-guìrén’s eunuchs talking to someone. They were shutting down the kitchen and everyone left... well, they don’t like me.” 

That was far from ideal, but this girl did seem to inspire it. Harry looked down at the white gelatinous goop again. He could just refuse to eat it, but if the last course it was probably designed to be okay – right? The party still went on, they had night-boating after this, so they would end by giving the people in this ridiculous power-play something to actually eat. 

Even if not, what did it matter if he failed this obvious test? It was clearly just something to exalt those with insider connections. Maybe he should just eat it anyway, let himself be ‘sullied’ if it came to that – but he didn’t actually know what failing to stay ‘pure’ meant in this case and it seemed a bit stupid to throw what would surely be an advantage away. He could have Hermione try some, he supposed. See if she could tell if something had been added. But that would leave marks on his bowl and spoon, he’d have to admit she ate some and then who knows if that would be taken as disrespect. How dare servants eat food made for nobles, or something. 

He shut his eyes tightly as the magic show stopped. 

“Little sister Potter-guìrén,” Avery called, a bit more genuinely confused than the previous times. Shit. He got up jerkily and bowed to the main-podium. He could see Vulchanova’s empty bowl. _“_ Was there something wrong with even simple sugar and rice?” Shit, shit _, shit, shit, shit_! 

“This humble one is stupid,” Harry started off with, because really he was and admitting that seemed like the best way to go. “I only thought that since this body tempers itself as a vessel to match His Majesty’s divinity, to intake any earthly thing will surely leave me lacking in comparison. As such, while this body purifies itself I will only fast. Please recognize my devotion.” Oh Merlin, he was making a scene, this was exactly not what he wanted. 

The folly of hubris. Harry should have just eaten the damned pudding and ridden out whatever humiliations he’d have to suffer for being the only guìrén to not have been clued in to the whole trap. 

The seconds stretched on, but as Avery was deliberating if she wanted to make an example of him, the increasingly familiar tenor of Lucius Malfoy saved him. “Well, I'm going boating before the moon-moths get too frenzied. My Lord?”

And just like that the tension snapped, the great flood of servants coming again to clear away their dishes in a much louder clatter than they served them. Harry’s arms shook as he dropped them and finally looked up to the head-platform, only to see the fading backs of everyone who’d previously been upon it, exiting to wherever it was they were all going. 

“You got through that on sheer luck, didn’t you?” 

Harry turned to Blaise Zabini, still sitting a table over. He was smirking, but there was something about his absurdly handsome face that made it a startling, genuinely amused expression. “Might have, yeah,” Harry said. He raised a hand to tug through his hair, remembering too late that he was all trussed up and so was left awkwardly running his fingers along the tight coiffure some maid had done on him. 

Zabini blatantly watched the movement, not at all pressed for time and completely comfortable with the various entourages that watched them both. “I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness then, when I don’t invite you to luncheon tomorrow. It would upset the cook if I invited someone who couldn’t...participate.” 

Right. Because he was now forced to fast for who knows how long. It being treason to lie to his superiors, and all that. 

“I do not think you were intending on inviting me in the first place,” Harry said, the least bad of the things running through his head but he knew it was not a particularly clever response as soon as he said it. Too bold by a measure, for sure. He hadn’t known about whatever luncheon this was, but was that the point or did Zabini think that Harry had some network of spies all around to inform him of these things? Did Zabini have a network of spies informing him on Harry? (Or rather, on the people a bit more worthy of notice than Harry.) 

“I didn’t exactly make you up a party favor already, but I wasn’t opposed to it,” Zabini acknowledged pleasantly. 

What layers of insinuation. That Zabini was hosting people of import tomorrow, how Zabini interacted so casually with people of higher rank than his, that all of his guests ‘participated’ in something which Harry’s boldness excluded him from, that people who were invited to such things got ‘party favors’, that he spoke so casually and so publicly, that he wasn’t concerned with elbowing his way to the Emperor or Ministers at this moment and so could dawdle such. And that he told Harry any of this meant he was open to...alliance? Mutual benefit? That he wasn’t factioned into something exclusive at the very least. 

“Despite whatever tonight has been,” Harry paid extra care to his words, for his own benefit more than Zabini's, “I am not trying to start anything.” 

Zabini’s expression didn’t fall, but as he raised his arm to be helped up Harry felt like perhaps he’d said the wrong thing. “If you say so, but the thing about any manner of secret plotting, _Jiejie_ , is that it’s best not to do it quite so secretly.” 

Harry ended up being the last one out of the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had 7 things I wanted to get through in this chapter, I got through 2 of them. Fuck me. 
> 
> I know this just seems like tangents on tangents. I know where I'm going but I can't know if that's necessarily coming across because this bitch is so slow and complicated - so, please comment on your thoughts because 1) I adore comments and will comment back because I crave connection 2) I'd appreciate knowing if things are getting across or if I'm just writing out a late night fever dream. 
> 
> Maybe not next chapter, but we'll have a Tom perspective relatively soon I think.


End file.
